


A Study in Ivory

by manic_intent



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bottom!Greg Lestrade, Case Fic, Inspired by Sherlock Christmas special trailer, M/M, That AU about Victorian Era Holmes + magic, Top!Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4311015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You have a visitor,” Mrs Hudson added irritably, as John trailed after Holmes and Billy, “Oh, not you, Doctor,” she added, as John paused on habit. “But tell <i>Mister</i> Holmes that I’ll not abide the police banging up and down the house at all hours. What will the neighbours think? I’ll not get any other lodgers!” </p><p>This, John reflected, as he retreated from Mrs Hudson’s womanly wrath, was precisely why his landlady’s role was restricted to a ‘plot device’ in his short stories. The Strand’s readers had turned out to have a surprisingly prodigious appetite for his case notes - or, as Holmes tended to call them, his ‘over-romanticised recollections’, but John rather doubted that his readers would have stood for pages upon pages depicting Mrs Hudson’s passionate tirades about the Right and Proper Way To Behave as a Gentleman Lodger. She could write a book. Holmes would still break all the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> On Friday morning I watched the Sherlock trailer for the Christmas!Victorian special, and it was everything I ever wanted /purist. If you have not seen it here it is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91CSjjTMjiA BEHOLD. EVERYTHING. I EVER. WANTED.
> 
> Even before high school I loved Arthur Conan Doyle’s Holmes books. I have all of them. Then I collected the pastiches obsessively for years and years - I still do. I’ve also written an original!era Sherlock Holmes pastiche before, long before Sherlock BBC was even a thing. It is, I suppose, effectively my longest and most enduring fandom. 
> 
> Recently I’ve been reading magic!fantasy books (Lev Grossman’s The Magicians, Novik’s Uprooted etc), and I’ve loved Rivers of London and Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell. So I guess this story will be around those lines. Writing in first person is not my preference, so unfortunately (or fortunately?) I won’t be mimicking Conan Doyle’s style.
> 
> Takes place directly after the trailer.

I.

“You have a visitor,” Mrs Hudson added irritably, as John trailed after Holmes and Billy, “Oh, not you, Doctor,” she added, as John paused on habit. “But tell _Mister_ Holmes that I’ll not abide the police banging up and down the house at all hours. What will the neighbours think? I’ll not get any other lodgers!”

This, John reflected, as he retreated from Mrs Hudson’s womanly wrath, was precisely why his landlady’s role was restricted to a ‘plot device’ in his short stories. The Strand’s readers had turned out to have a surprisingly prodigious appetite for his case notes - or, as Holmes tended to call them, his ‘over-romanticised recollections’, but John rather doubted that his readers would have stood for pages upon pages depicting Mrs Hudson’s passionate tirades about the Right and Proper Way To Behave as a Gentleman Lodger. She could write a book. Holmes would still break all the rules. 

He passed Billy hurrying back down the stairs, and as John stepped into the narrow digs that he shared with Holmes, he saw at once the reason for Mrs Hudson’s ire and Billy’s quick exit: Inspector Lestrade was standing by the fireplace, looking sour and tense. Lestrade began talking instantly when John looked around awkwardly and then decided to stow the bag away in the furthest corner of the room.

“It’s a bad business, Mister Holmes,” Lestrade said flatly, “And I’ve seen me share. Been a copper for well over twenty years and a bit, ‘aven’t I. But this murder done’s been a sickish thing, and I’ve had hardened coppers go green to the gills. Lord but I don’t blame them.” 

Holmes had slouched into his favourite armchair when Lestrade had begun to speak, but now he sat forward, long fingers steepled before him, eyes glittering under his deerstalker hat. On any other man it would have been a look of pleasure. On Holmes, it was merely a sign of relief: a puzzle, perhaps, worthy enough for his steel trap of a machine mind. “Details, Lestrade. More details, less poetry. I get enough of that from Dr Watson as it is.”

Lestrade glowered briefly at John. “Yes, about that,” he said dryly. “I _can_ read, y’know. What’s this then, you think it’s funny to call me a, what, ‘lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking’?”

John shrugged. Afghanistan and the medical profession had combined to make him impervious to temper, justified as it may be in this regard. Inspector Gregory Lestrade was indeed not quite what John had written in his stories: Lestrade, in fact, was a fairly handsome man, stocky and broad-shouldered, his hair silvering into walnut brown, and although he did have an occasionally furtive look to him, particularly when he was struggling to keep up with Holmes, he was not particularly ‘rat-faced’. John had merely been trying to protect the identity of his ‘plot devices’ by muddling up some of their descriptions, but he felt that such a statement would probably only annoy Lestrade further.

“Artistic license?” 

“ _Details_ ,” Holmes pressed impatiently, clearly already bored of the discussion of John’s literary prowess or lack thereof. “Details, details!”

“Body was found at three in the morning in Buck’s Row, Whitechapel,” Lestrade began, then uncharacteristically, he hesitated. “As to the rest, I think you’d better see it for yourself.” 

John was tired from their trip back from Dartmoor, but Holmes now seemed energised, a marked change from the darkening mood that he had worn on the way back to Baker Street. He had solved his case, after all - perhaps not as precisely as he would have liked, but the murderer had been caught, and Holmes’ mind had already begun to lose interest, to grind in on itself again. Now Lestrade had given it grist, and Holmes pushed himself to his feet, with far more vitality than he had worn when they had rattled their way back home. 

“To the scene of the crime,” Holmes said imperiously. “Billy! Call us a-” 

“No need,” Lestrade interrupted gruffly. “I got a cab waiting.” 

Holmes raised his eyebrows, eyes darting for a moment towards Lestrade’s shoes, then his fingers. “You’ve been waiting a while. An hour? You could’ve left a message with Mrs Hudson or sent a telegram.” 

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “This is too important. You don’t deign to answer half of my messages. Now come on then. We’ve kept the press out of this so far but it won’t be that way for long, and I don’t fancy getting grilled by the Times and then by the Commissioner before me dinner.”

Holmes stayed reproachfully silent on the way to Whitechapel, and John found himself conducting awkward small talk with Lestrade instead, updating him on their Dartmoor case, occasionally checking a detail or two in his notebook. He was just about to tell Lestrade precisely how Holmes had managed to track down the murderer through a discrepancy in the local pub’s beer delivery schedule when the cab rattled to a stop. 

The first out of the police cab was Holmes, sharp-eyed and eager, looking around briskly before turning back to look accusingly at Lestrade, who shrugged. “Wasn’t me. Told the boys to stay off the ground but you took your time getting back to Baker Street, innit? We couldn’t just hang about and twiddle our thumbs. Got procedure for a reason. As it is, the wagon should've come by now to pick up the poor girl, Lord knows what's the delay.”

“Scotland Yard’s ‘procedure’ exists to frustrate my methods and destroy my evidence,” Holmes growled, ignoring the frowns that his statement ignited from the closest cops, but then he took two more steps towards the start of Buck’s Row, frowned, and came to a stop. 

John risked a look, bracing himself. War and a long acquaintance with Holmes had not made it any easier to see the effects of human evil. A woman lay on the street, casually butchered, the ground black with dried blood. Her throat had been severed, the head resting at an odd angle half a foot away from the meat of the neck, the lower part of her abdomen liberally ripped open, as though torn outwards. As he stepped closer, careful to stay on the edge of the street, close to the walls, John noted, with mounting horror, that the killer had also carefully removed at least part of the victim’s entrails, from what he could see. 

Around her, constables looked grim, even pale, God’s final witnesses to the way the poor woman’s last hours had been spent. John fought the urge to cross himself, and looked back over to Holmes. To his surprise, Holmes was still frowning, tight-lipped, as he looked carefully from the ground to the walls, without even stepping closer or swarming over the grounds as he normally would. Then, to everyone’s surprise, without a further word, Holmes turned on his heel and started to walk away from Buck’s Row, down the street, looking sharply to his left, then to his right. 

“Oi,” Lestrade called, a little red-faced, hurrying after Holmes, and John followed as well, helplessly, frustrated at his companion. He knew Holmes’ methods, of course, knew how esoteric they might seem, but this - surely this was beyond the pale. Surely the brutality of the murder behooved at least _some_ respect.

“Holmes,” Lestrade had caught up first, his voice tight with annoyance. “For God’s sake-“

“Iron,” Holmes snapped. “Do you have iron? Iron, man. Don’t gawk at me. It’s a simple question. Yes? No?”

Lestrade stared at Holmes, baffled, but John had checked through his pockets. He wished that he had brought his doctor’s bag. “What about coins? Pence? They’re plated steel.” 

“Has to be iron.” Holmes frowned at the street, as though personally betrayed. “Quickly, quickly!”

“Is this part of the case?” Lestrade was clearly struggling to follow, not even hiding it, torn between trust and suspicion, though John saw that the Inspector had dutifully written down 'iron?' in his ever-present notebook.

“Obviously,” Holmes transferred his glare to the Inspector, though it wasn’t obvious to John at all, and with a half-shake of his head, Lestrade motioned the closest constable over.

Ten minutes later, an enterprising constable had turned up a handful of iron nails, begged from a pawn shop down the block, and Holmes nodded to himself, pinched a nail between thumb and forefinger, sharp end out. Unfortunately, they had attracted a small crowd of onlookers now, despite the best efforts of Lestrade’s men, but Holmes seemed oblivious to them, again frowning to himself as he walked slowly up and down the block, still ignoring Buck’s Row, then he abruptly crossed the street, towards the narrow door of a tobacco shop, and walked right in, Lestrade and John on his heels. 

Lestrade was red-faced again, clearly close to demanding that Holmes explain himself, but then he blinked rapidly as around them, the tiny, dingy shop with its cases of cigars and its boxes of baccy and its greasy counter with a rheumy-eyed shopkeeper suddenly seemed to… distort, like a bubble twisting in the sun, and then it _rippled_ , as though John had pushed a finger into a reflection in a pond. 

When it straightened out, the room was empty and unfurnished, but for a tall, thin man, well-dressed in a beautifully made suit with horn buttons, a black wood-handled umbrella resting in the crook of his arm. He had a round, stern face, mouth set into an uncompromising, thin line, and there was something unfathomably cold to his eyes and to the sharp arch of his brow, something oddly familiar in the delicate lift of his cheekbones.

Holmes looked surprised for a moment - actually surprised - before he let out a laugh that was surprisingly bitter. “Well, well.” 

Lestrade recovered from his shock more quickly than John: he had his hand inside his coat, probably reaching for his gun. The thin man stared disdainfully at Lestrade, then glanced back at Holmes. “You’re intruding.” 

“Who’s this, then?” Lestrade said loudly, unimpressed, jaw set, and the thin man narrowed his eyes, arms still crossed. 

“Are you going to insist on this farce?” the thin man told Holmes. “I really haven’t got the time for this.”

“Clearly you do. Since you’ve come personally, and all over the death of a prostitute,” Holmes shot back, “Usually something like that would be beneath your notice, wouldn’t it? Something’s gone wrong.” 

“Sherlock,” the thin man warned, and Holmes’ jaw tightened further. 

“Right then,” Lestrade took a step forward, and Holmes actually flinched, as though belatedly remembering that Lestrade and John were there. 

“No need for that, Inspector,” Holmes said crisply. “Allow me to introduce you both to my brother. Mycroft Holmes.” 

John stared, for a long moment, as the resemblance finally clicked into place, even as Lestrade dropped his hand from his coat. “Bloody hell,” the Inspector swore. “There’re _two_ of you?”

i.

Greg had been having a spectacularly bad day. First the horrific murder, then the landlady-supplied revelation at Baker Street that Holmes was Out Of Town and was Returning Sometime Soon, Maybe. He had hung around in 221B just to catch his breath and annoy the old biddy, and just as he had finally become bored of waiting, Holmes and Watson had swept back home. Thank the Lord.

Unfortunately, instead of scuttling back and forth over the crime scene and then launching into one of his strange but effective flights of fancy, Holmes had wandered off instead, and then harassed everyone for iron, and now… now Greg wasn’t sure whether he was awake or dreaming. They had been in a tobacco shop, and now they weren’t. There had been some old gent at the counter, and now there was no counter, and the old gent was a posh, tall man with the air of a lordling and just as much bad attitude. 

But a case was a case, and Greg had doggedly decided to follow procedure when Holmes had dropped a second bombshell, and now both Greg and Watson were gawping at ‘Mycroft’ like idiots rather than investigating some poor girl’s death. Irritated at himself, Greg sucked in a tight breath, about to demand an answer, but Holmes - Sherlock - was already talking.

“This is a Merlin case, isn’t it?” 

Mycroft stared pointedly at Greg, then at Watson. “Sherlock, you know the rules.”

“You should have cleaned up the burnout more quickly if you cared so much about the rules.”

Mycroft sighed, studiedly patient. “We _were_ cleaning up. Unfortunately, a member of the public raised the alarm. Someone was… lax with cover.” 

“Cleaning up?” Greg repeated, outraged. 

“Well _yes_ , Inspector,” Mycroft said, bitingly. “Cleaning up, in the sense that you and your esteemed colleagues could then come trampling around safely rather than… the alternative.” Mycroft seemed to catch himself. 

“What alternative?”

“Never mind.” Mycroft said dismissively, and frowned at Sherlock again. “Yes. It’s a Merlin case. Are we done?”

“Who was she?” Sherlock pressed. “She’s not like any of the… I only had a quick glance. But the victim’s a prostitute. Down on her luck. An addict and an alcoholic. She’s not your sort.” 

“No, she wasn’t,” Mycroft noted heavily. “And that’s the crux of the problem, as you can imagine. It seems that there’s an underground circuit of some sorts, right in London. A rash of it, at that. Whatever corrupted working it was that broke free, I doubt that’ll be the first of it. Hedge mages share spells like they share needles. The good and the bad.”

Spells? Mages? “Now see here,” Greg tried, wondering if this was some sort of elaborate charade, an expression of Sherlock’s often cruel and merciless humour, but Sherlock waved impatiently at him. Greg refused to shut up, however, he’d had enough. “Do you know who the killer is, then?” Greg told Mycroft irritably. “I’m going to need you to come by the Yard and give a statement.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mycroft retorted, sounding mildly appalled at the very idea. “And there’s no killer, man, have you not been listening? That poor girl did what was done to herself.”

“I really sodding doubt that,” Greg said dryly.

“Believe what you want.” Mycroft frowned at Sherlock. “Are we done here? This is none of your concern.”

“We’re done.” Sherlock said crisply, before Greg could interject, and Mycroft nodded, stepping forward, and then he was _gone_.

What.

“I hate it when he does that,” Sherlock muttered, as though discussing some sort of minor impolite bad habit rather than a sheer impossibility. “Oh for God’s sake. Watson, close your mouth. Inspector, go back to the Yard. I suspect Mycroft’s just on his way back to put a lid on things. It’ll be taken off your hands.” 

“A murder? Taken off my hands?” Greg said, disbelieving.

“Stop parroting me, it’s tedious.” Sherlock shoved his hands into his coat, looking distinctly put out. “If my brother’s involved, it’ll be for the best.” 

“What’s a… What’s a Merlin case?” Watson was asking. 

“It means a case that you will never, ever be able to publish,” Sherlock said pointedly, but under Watson’s steady stare, he exhaled irritably. “Promise me that.”

“Do you think that’s what I’m concerned about?” Watson retorted incredulously. “What’s going on? A girl is dead, and your… your _brother_ just disappeared in thin air, and-“

Watson startled at the sound of a heavy knock on the door. Greg crossed over and opened it, revealing a rabbity, wide-eyed constable, frozen in the middle of knocking again. Over his shoulder, to Greg’s disbelief, he could see the squad starting to pack up. A small team of men in gray coats were trooping into Buck’s Row instead, with little black bags in their hands. 

“We’ve been called off the case, sir,” the constable said meekly. “Word from the Commissioner.” 

“What in the blazes?” Greg began angrily, but then he collected himself as the hapless constable cringed and mumbled something about ‘orders’ from ‘up high’, and finally nodded tightly and wearily. Somehow, the impossible had happened - and Greg still had no idea _why_ it had happened. “That’s all right, Jimmy. Tell the boys to head back to the Yard. I’ll catch up.” 

When the constable left, Greg turned, slowly, to Sherlock’s solemn stare and Watson’s confusion. “Faster than I thought,” Sherlock said finally. “Cleanup was likely already on its way. You should head back to the Yard as well, Inspector.”

“Not until I get to the bottom of this,” Greg decided, because although he might be as unimaginative as Watson’s stories made him out to be, he was certainly as dogged as Watson described him, and he could feel his usual stubbornness setting in. 

“Don’t,” Sherlock said abruptly, to Greg’s surprise. “There’s everything to lose where you’re concerned. It’s not your world. I’ll follow up the matter on my own.”

“Now look here,” Greg protested, even as Watson said, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” 

“It’s all that I can offer at present. Let it go, Inspector.”

“No, and damn you for even saying that to me,” Greg shot back hotly. “A woman was butchered there. I don’t care whether she was a street walker or whatever she was. She was murdered and I intend to see justice done.” 

“She wasn’t murdered,” Sherlock said, if distantly. “At least. I don’t believe so at this stage. I need more data. Data,” he repeated to himself, looking carefully around the empty room, as though memorising a clue that Greg could not see. “Watson, tell Mrs Hudson that I shan’t be home for at least the next two days.”

“And where’re you headed?” Greg scowled, unwilling to let go. 

“She can’t have done that to herself by accident,” Watson added, glancing back over his shoulder at Buck’s Row, where the gray-suited men had already disappeared out of sight. “Her… well. What was removed from her? It was done very, ah. Very neatly. Very sharp knives. She’ll have fainted from blood loss if she’d tried to do it to herself.”

“It’s useless to speculate without sufficient data,” Sherlock began, hesitated, then exhaled in a rush, as though in distaste, before striding past them, out towards the street. “I do suspect that I’m going to need to have a word with my mother.”


	2. Chapter 2

a.

Sherlock glanced once more behind him, at the empty park, the silent street. This pocket of Mayfair was quiet, unnaturally so, at least to the trained eye. One block away, people absently took a corner instead of stepping right onto this section of the street, taking the long way around without even noticing it. The white-walled row of houses stood silent, their windows shuttered, doors identical even down to the banks of plants beside them and the brass numbers on the black-stained wood, and it annoyed Sherlock to see it, as it always did. Just because something was enchanted didn't mean that it had to be _sloppy_.

He marched up to the door of the second house in the street, wiping his hands on his coat absently. The constable whom Lestrade had not-so-subtly sent to tail him stood bewildered on the street corner beyond the silent street, looking left and right, blindly confused even though Sherlock stood plainly in sight but two houses away. Sherlock's lip curled. He had never quite liked this particular keystone glamour: it was heavy-handed, and had the look of his brother's spellwork all over it - unashamedly powerful, and so painfully lazy. 

The constable was one of the smarter ones, at least: he backtracked, then went forward for another street, then came back to the street corner, still blinking. Smirking to himself, good humour restored, Sherlock went up to the door, and studied the brass knob. There was a scuff on it, but an old one, and nodding, Sherlock hunched his shoulders against the deepening chill of the day, bleak even under the efforts of the winter sun, and opened the door into a blast of summer. 

Sherlock shrugged off his coat as he stepped through, and closed the door behind him. He hung the coat on an obliging branch, forked close to the red door that was set into the wide truck of the oak, one coat of many on the tree. Three coats were ladies' coats, one French, two English, the English coats both dusted with a fine down of white fur, a cat's, quite likely. Two coats belonged to men, one cheap and ill fitting, one old and loved and mended, a man who had been down on his luck then up again and now was back on a downswing. He filed the information away into his brain palace and glanced at the ground. The women's feet led them forward, through the grass, trampling it down on their haste to get to the sprawling mansion beyond, edging around the trimmed maze with its stone cupid's fountain. One set of men's tracks led in a meander into the maze, and the other circled away entirely, away from the mansion. Other guests, by the look of it: this pocket summer would only admit the approved. 

Taking his pipe from his coat, and his pouch of tobacco, Sherlock took his time lighting up, then puffed luxuriously at his pipe as he began to walk towards the mansion, skin starting to prickle with sweat under his waistcoat and shirt. The summer heat felt raw on his skin after the chill of winter, the bees fat and buzzing lazily past, the grounds the endless elegant rolling wave of the English countryside, rich and green in his mother's eternal summer. 

Sherlock was still smoking when he was met at the threshold by the butler. This particular version was named Reynolds, and he was thin, of middling height, with thinning black hair and watery gray eyes, determinedly stolid in his livery, clearly used to strange visitors, the uncanny, and to family in general. His polite, "Master Holmes," was crisp, but his stare was disapproving as he watched Sherlock knock ash onto the spotless porch. 

"Reynolds," Sherlock acknowledged him, with a tilt of his head. "I'm here to see my mother." 

Reynolds' frown deepened, his eyes flicking down to Sherlock's shoes. The walk through the garden had not quite managed to purge London mud and filth off the leather, and Sherlock smiled, thin and sharp and perhaps a little malicious. Beyond the threshold he could see the foyer, decked out in marble for today, perhaps the efforts of a young architect-adept: it was full of unnecessarily frills and limpid-eyed sculptures of springing deer, limbs and vines forming a thickly encrusted bannister of a wide stairway curling up to the second floor, the ground a gigantic mural of a fox hunt in summer. 

The details were quite good, if unusual: instead of highlighting the so-called noble sport, the fox's terror seemed palpable even from the tiny gleaming tiles, while the bloodlust on the faces of the men arched over their horses snarled out from ivory and lapis lazuli, over a wave of dogs with bared teeth. Sherlock was still studying the mural when his mother said, very dryly, "Sherlock." 

He turned around. Mrs Victoria Holmes was still bestride a horse - or, more precisely, a horse-shaped fae, red-eyed, jet black and shorting, its flame-coloured mane tossing in a wind that was not there, its horn-coloured cloven feet making not a sound on the grass. Victoria was dressed for riding, albeit in mannish sensible gear and boots and helmet, her golden hair tucked into a tight bun behind her seamed face. She handed the reins of the fae to Reynolds, and beckoned to Sherlock as she started to stride towards the maze, and he held out his arm to her, smiling thinly as she slid her fingers into the crook, her black gloves tightening briefly on his shirt. 

This close to her, even one born with no magic in his blood could sense her strength, a prickly, warm weight, like the summer heat, for all that his mother was a full head shorter than him and slight in build, like a waif. The current Dragon of England, unlike her other, Gifted son, wore her magic openly. 

"I was expecting you," Victoria said briskly, as they stepped through thick hedges and into the maze, the smell thick with earth and leaf and mould, the hedges high enough to block out the mansion behind them as they turned a corner. 

"Mycroft complained?" 

"No. Not yet," Victoria added, with a sly little smile, both tender and amused and malicious all at once, for she loved both her children, Gifted and UnGifted, and what she loved she often burned. "But this hedge-mage problem has been simmering along for a while, and I suppose it was only a matter of time before it boiled over." 

"Did you know the victim?" Sherlock asked. 

Victoria frowned at him. "Of course not. I'm the Dragon of England, my dear, I have not the time to get acquainted even with all the adepts in my care, let alone the unregistered free folk who insist on corrupting talent and formulae. Still," she added, "It's unfortunate that we missed her on our sweeps. The _krigor_ that she birthed gave Mycroft and his friends quite a workout, I hear." 

"His minions, you mean," Sherlock corrected absently. "A _krigor_. Surely a mage with that much of a well should have come under the attention of your sort sooner." 

"Mycroft believes it's because she was living in the dregs of society and all that," Victoria said, supremely disinterested, and Sherlock had to take in a deep, slow breath for patience. "Oh, my dear. It's quite unlike you to get involved so." 

Sherlock nodded. After Eton and Oxford he had more or less insisted on cutting off contact with his mother's world, his brother's world - for it was not his, and therefore not particularly of interest. His mind loved crime, instead, the inner corruption of a human mind, while his brother preferred the corruption of human reality. "Mycroft said that there was a 'rash' of it. So this might not be the only case." 

"First of the sort, I do think." Victoria said carelessly. "Mycroft is looking into it." 

"I doubt he'll have the means," Sherlock pointed out. "If this latest circuit of hedge-mages is underground, in the 'dregs of society', I very much doubt that Mycroft has the appropriate contacts." 

"While you do, I presume," Victoria noted, amused all over again. "My dear, due to your relation to me, you'll be hardly welcome in such circles." 

"I have my ways." 

"The little trinket you stole from me, you mean. Oh, don't protest," Victoria waved a hand dismissively. "I read your friend's stories. All of us have, they're quite entertaining." She smiled as Sherlock pulled a sour face. "He thinks you can change your appearance and your very look with just greasepaint and some padding? Ha! How delightfully innocent." 

'Delightfully innocent' was not a description that Sherlock would have paired with Dr Watson by any means, but he scowled anyway. "Quite so. A little verisimilitude was required. But 'trinket' aside, I have my own contacts." 

"Your 'Baker Street Irregulars'?" Victoria laughed. "Oh, don't scowl so, my dear. Give my regards to the good doctor. And do bring him along the next time you visit. He'll be madly popular with my girls." 

" _Mother_." 

"Oh, very well. My answer to your suggestion is 'no'. Mycroft is looking into it, and that is the end of my word on the matter." 

Sherlock swallowed a sigh. He had thought as much. Around them, the maze obligingly straightened itself out, allowing them to take a straight line out to the other side, where Mycroft was waiting, umbrella planted on the ground. He frowned, irritated, when he saw their mother on Sherlock's arm, opening his mouth to speak a protest, then he swallowed it instead, his stare jumping up from Sherlock's face to over his shoulder. 

"Move!"

1.0.

Sherlock and Victoria turned, just in time to see the horned cobra-like head of the _krigor_ burst out over the top of the hedges, deeper in the maze, looking about wildly for a moment before it focused on the three of them. Mycroft twisted the handle of his umbrella, the glamour on it rippling, then fading away, his hand closing on the wooden hilt of his mageblade, the sky iron making a whistling, shearing sound as it met the air on its naked edge.

The _krigor_ glared at him and howled, an uncomfortably human-like sound, its shoulders almost cresting the hedges of the maze as it bowled forward, ignoring the enchanted ground as it tried to hem or slow it down, its huge mastiff-like body black with blood and dotted with cancerous lumps, waxen and feverish: here something that looked like a man's cheek, pressed up through the _krigor's_ hairless hide, there the tips of what looked like gigantic fingers, nails and all, pressed up like spikes over the arch of the monster's back. 

Victoria had clenched her hand tight on Sherlock's arm, weaving a Magellan Dome around them both, her face tight with outrage. Mycroft spelled himself with a muttered word and a gesture, bleeding magic into his skin and bones, speeding himself fractionally faster than time, but even so he barely dodged the _krigor's_ charge, as it lumbered past him, its huge rat-like tail lashing the air, cracking down on the Dome and splashing fiery sparks into the air. 

Mycroft whirled around, startled, as heard Victoria scream, and stared, dumbfounded, as the Dome collapsed, his mother falling fainting into Sherlock's arms, his brother wide-eyed with shock. The _krigor's_ tail had done minimum damage to the Dome; he had seen Victoria contemptuously shrug off blows far greater over the years, duelling or in her work, physical or arcane. 

"Pay attention, man!" Sherlock's sharp tone snapped him out of his surprise, and Mycroft ducked a viper-quick strike from the cobra head that would have snapped his own head off his shoulders. In his peripheral vision, he could see Sherlock scooping their mother into his arms and making a run for it, heading towards the villa, and Mycroft grit his teeth, relieved that his brother had seen the logical step and had taken it, rather than staying and trying to help. 

Mycroft raised a hand, calling the earth to him, speaking a renga to the land, to the magic long steeped in this land that he had been born on, that his mother had been born on, his brother, his grandmother, and fed his anger and outrage into it and clenched his hand into a fist. Thick roots burst from the ground, roping the _krigor_ down as it loped towards him, lashing down its thighs, sometimes tearing loose, but stringing more and more over the monster's spine, over its twisting neck, its jaws. Mycroft bore it down, sweating, teeth gritted, tasting blood in his mouth as he drew more and more magic from the air, from the ground, until he felt his skin dry out, his throat parched, saw dimly that the grass around his feet was wilting, dying. The roots were a blanket now, bearing the creature to the ground, pinning it still, and only when its snapping jaws were pressed to the grass, venom hissing and spitting on the soil, did Mycroft stride over, hand clenched knuckle-white on his mageblade. 

The _krigor_ made a moaning sound not unlike that of relief as Mycroft severed its head neatly from the neck, its great body twitching, splintering roots still, clawing at the grass, still twitching and shivering as Mycroft spoke a psalm of fire to the corpse, the words twisting through the air itself as they were spoken, distorting the world, pulling the summer heat down, more and more of it, until Mycroft breathed out a breath that plumed in the now chilly air around him. There was a hissing, crackling sound, and the _krigor's_ body burst into flames. 

Breathing heavily, unsteady on his feet, Mycroft leaned on his mageblade for a moment before he gathered himself, turning around. The maze was in a sorry state, the hedges pulling weakly away from the path that the _krigor_ had bulled through them, and at the end of it, near the fountain of the stone cupid, was the body of a man, a bloody wreck that had turned the water of the fountain black, his belly pulled open, as though torn from the inside. Taking in a shaky breath, Mycroft murmured a kōan of empty space, and stepped through the air and out. 

Sherlock ignored him, kneeling beside their mother on a divan in the drawing room of the mansion where he had brought her, Reynolds bustling around in agitation, bringing a basin of warmed water and a cloth. The other adepts stood close by, scattering back when they recognised Mycroft. Victoria lay sleeping on the cushions, her face pale, and in the mage sight Mycroft could still see the trappings of her rank, the mage-scale that ran in a single serpentine line up both her arms, superimposed over her riding coat. 

"What happened?" Mycroft asked Sherlock tightly. 

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know. The tail hit the dome and then she collapsed. Did you-" 

"The monster's dead." Mycroft said briskly, and frowned at the other adepts. All of you. Go to the solar. I will speak to you there." 

"But-" said the Frenchwoman, though she dropped her eyes when Mycroft stared evenly at her, and the adepts filed out. 

"Reynolds," Mycroft added, "Go and watch them. Offer them refreshments, whatever you please. Make sure none of them leave." 

Reynolds nodded, and followed the adepts out, his step brisk now, and even. By the divan, Sherlock let out a snort. "I never figured him for one of yours." 

"Good. The glamour on him was tailored with you in mind." Mycroft said. "And if it worked on you it'll likely have worked on the rest. If anyone tries to escape, they'll get a nasty surprise." He dropped his mageblade and opened their mother's jacket, his fingers shaking a little, and after a moment, Sherlock helped him, gently pulling her blouse out of riding breeches, unbuttoning it over the belly and pulling it open. 

Under her blouse, Victoria's skin was as pale as her cheeks, with one difference: as they watched, a lump twitched up, under her skin, in a restless hump, then settled back down. 

"Mycroft." 

Mycroft had never heard Sherlock speak like that before, anxious, nearly frightened. "Stay back." He spoke a verse of binding, of slowing, forcing the words past teeth clenched with exhaustion, layering slow time over Victoria's sleeping form, layer upon layer until the air shimmered with the force of the spell, until her breathing eased, growing slower and slower until it seemed to stop. 

"Cabinet," Mycroft grit out to Sherlock, sweat sticking his shirt to his skin from the effort of singlehandedly holding all the layers in place with no anchor, "Hand me the-" but Sherlock was already pressing the onyx ball from the wall cabinet into Mycroft's hands. UnGifted as his brother might be, sometimes Mycroft forgot that Sherlock almost always saw more than he should. 

His skin crawled as he reached through the layered time, settling the ball over his mother's belly, where it wobbled for a moment before growing still, anchored down. Then Mycroft lifted his palm, the verse bound and complete, and staggered, his mageblade forgotten on the ground, Sherlock steadying his shoulder quickly with a grasp. 

"How long?" Sherlock demanded, narrow-eyed. "How much time do we have?" 

"I don't know." Mycroft admitted. "She'll have five times however long the hedge-mages had. Hopefully longer." 

"How did that man get in here?" 

"I don't know." Mycroft managed to stumble over to an armchair, settling down in exhaustion. He needed to question the other adepts. He had to find out who the intruder had been, how he had gotten past the best of Mycroft's and Victoria's wards. He had to- 

"You're getting my help," Sherlock said finally, "Whether you need it or not. And I think that you _do_ need it. For God's sake, Mycroft," he added, when Mycroft didn't answer. "Don't be an arse about it. This is about our _mother_." 

"… Fine." Mycroft said wearily, drawing a card out from the air, and handing it over to Sherlock. "Take that to the Diogenes Club. Fetter will give you all the information that we have." 

Sherlock nodded, and glanced back over at Victoria's still form. A normal human would have collapsed, perhaps, beat his breast, torn his hair in grief, expressed disbelief at how easily the foremost adept in England had been felled, sworn revenge. Sherlock, however, was merely compartmentalizing it, the way Mycroft was, storing the detail of it away, the horror of it. 

"Infected," Sherlock said finally, evenly. "She was infected. Her magic. Was that what happened? Magellan's Dome. It's a structure of pure will. An extension of her mind. When the tail struck it..." He trailed off. "I'm going to examine the body." 

Mycroft didn't have the energy to admonish his brother for knowing more about spellwork than he should. He was tired, and heart-sick, and cored with anger. But he nodded instead, and forced himself up from the armchair, striding over to pick up his mageblade, the form of it twisting back into the shape of an umbrella. "Be careful," Mycroft said finally. 

"You be careful," Sherlock shot back, to Mycroft's surprise. "Whatever it is, it's eating mages, not the rest of us." Before Mycroft could reply, Sherlock tugged down the rim of his deerstalker hat, and stalked out of the room, stiff-legged. 

Alone, Mycroft straightened up, hooked his umbrella back on his arm, and took in a long, slow breath, calming himself. Then he spoke a kōan of empty space, and stepped away to the solar.


	3. Chapter 3

ii.

Greg was pushing middle age, with a dogged but not spectacular rise in the ranks of the CID. He had gotten there through sheer tenacity, for the first twenty years, and then after that through what was admittedly a considerable amount of help from Sherlock Holmes. The fact that John Watson's published papers occasionally made him look bad in front of his superiors didn't infuriate Greg the way it did his technical career rival, Tobias Gregson - unlike Tobias, Greg's main interest in policing was to serve and protect, not political ambition. This was quite possibly also the main reason why Sherlock seemed to occasionally make a nominal effort to be bearable in front of Greg, a 'favour' that he withheld from the rest of the Yard.

Dogged tenacity had also meant that Greg had spent the afternoon hunting down a map of Vernet Lane, marking off the exits, walking around with an iron nail - not that this had helped - and then finally posting two young bobbies on either exit, with instructions to note down the descriptions of anyone they saw leaving it. He had also nosed around the commissioner about the abrupt palming-off of the crime scene, was slapped back down, and had snuck over to Buck's Row for a final look. The street was cleaned up, and the tobacco shop was empty and boarded up. 

Midway through the day, one of the bobbies had seen Sherlock Holmes re-emerge from Vernet Lane, where he had promptly sped off in a hansom cab: Greg frowned at the telegram and sent one of his own to Baker Street, without much hope of getting an answer. He worked a simple burglary case gone wrong for the rest of the day, then headed back over to Baker Street. Dr Watson was not in residence, likely still at his practice, and Greg ignored Mrs Hudson's reproachful stares as he took the steps two at a time up to Holmes' rooms anyway. 

It was empty, the hearth cold, and Greg lit it absently, frowning at the flames as they caught the firewood and crackled. He stared at the fire and wished that he was back to two days ago, when the weirdest thing he had ever seen in his life was a giant dog doused in phosphorus: the world had been simpler then, even if he did wish that Watson hadn't faithfully noted down the way Greg had failed to handle himself professionally when faced with the monster dog. 

"The ambit of your duty surely does not include being an assistant housekeeper for my brother." 

Greg jumped, turning around with an oath, and nearly backpedalled into the fire as he recognised Mycroft, sitting in Sherlock's favourite armchair, fingers steepled. Mycroft's rounded face seemed pinched and exhausted, his eyes hollowed, but still there was that imperious air of disdain as he looked Greg over carefully, assessing him. Greg wasn't bothered - he'd seen the same from Sherlock, on a daily basis. 

"Know where he is?" Greg asked. 

"I always do," Mycroft said dismissively. Greg took in a deep breath, exasperated all over again, then he let it go, instead. There was a visible strain to Mycroft, now that he looked more closely, and it took a moment for Greg to place it. He had seen that look before, on the faces of relatives whose loved ones had gone missing, particularly parents. It was the strain of someone trying to prepare for the worst but refusing to. 

"Something happened?" Greg inquired gruffly, and Mycroft arched an eyebrow, assessing him again. 

"You're not as dull as Dr Watson makes you out to be." 

"Thanks, I guess?" Greg said dryly. 

"Yes. Something has happened," Mycroft said finally. "And yes, Sherlock is looking into it." 

"So you're actually here to talk to me," Greg concluded. 

"Evidently. Do you see anyone else in the room?" Mycroft shot back, though there wasn't any malice in it that Greg could sense. And here was the difference between the Holmes brothers, plain as the nose on Greg's face. Sherlock actually _did_ care about people, if in a vague way sometimes, and oft tried to hide it under a layer of thick sarcasm. Mycroft, on the other hand, didn't seem to care at all: he studied Greg with the mild fascination of a scientist with a specimen, distant and unapproachable, like Greg was but one piece on a vast board that only Mycroft could see. 

Well. Sod that for a lark. "You could've sent me a telegram at the yard," Greg said briskly. "If it's official business, come and see me there." 

"I don't believe so, Inspector." 

"Good day to you then," Greg said flatly, and turned to go, or tried to - the door shut in his face, and then the temperature of the room dipped, actually _dipped_ \- Greg's breath puffed out of him in a cloud, and the world even seemed to _darken_ , shadows curling in around the edges; around him, Mycroft's voice cracked like a whip. 

" _Sit. Down._ " 

All the strength seemed to go out of Greg in a sudden - he sprawled on the floor with a yelp, barking his knees on the ratty, ash-stained rug, then abruptly the room was warming up again, lit up and bright. A hand pressed into his line of sight, and Greg flinched back violently until he registered Mycroft's concerned expression. 

"My apologies." Mycroft said, though Greg wasn't entire certain if Mycroft meant it: his voice was cool and flat again. "I've had a very trying day." 

Slowly, Greg got to his feet, ignoring the outstretched hand, and sat down in the closest armchair, still shaky. As he watched, Mycroft crossed the room, re-seating himself in Sherlock's, steepling his fingers again. "So." Greg said, and fought the tremor in his voice by taking in a deep breath. "Uh. Magic. It's all real." 

"Oh, blast and bother," Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes it is. But you can pretend that it isn't, if that suits you better. May we move on?" 

"What can you do?" 

"We'll be here the rest if the night and all of tomorrow if I have to answer that question." 

"And it's all a big secret?" Greg ignored Mycroft's open impatience. 

"Yes. Finally, the government cover-up that you've been waiting for," Mycroft said acerbically. "There aren't any hard and fast rules, but yes, we do try to keep things out of the public eye. Functionally, however, English magic has been part of its culture and its wars since the late fifth century." 

"Time of King Arthur?" Greg had the pleasure of seeing Mycroft's eyebrows rise a fraction. 

"Yes, very good, Inspector." 

"Your brother called it a 'Merlin' case." Greg had done a little bit of reading in between hopping about madly trying to keep up with the rapidly derailing world today. He whipped out his notebook, and Mycroft frowned, as though Greg had drawn his revolver rather than a tattered book and a pencil. Still, Mycroft said nothing when Greg jotted down a few notes. "So was it a suicide?" 

"Matters are..." Mycroft trailed off. "Perhaps now more complicated." 

"I knew it." Greg said grimly, and when Mycroft arched an eyebrow, Greg added, "I seen the many hundreds of ways people choose to off themselves. Nobody really wants to go in a way that tears them up like that. 'Sides, she left her kids and she's paid up in rent where she lives. Got some bobbies to talk to her neighbors, she wasn't acting funny the days before." 

"I must say," Mycroft noted, as though to himself, "Despite Sherlock's doubts, there _is_ something to 'old fashioned' police work. Previously, when I said it wasn't a murder, I meant that I felt that it was an accident." 

"But?" 

"But now I am uncertain." Mycroft said, with studied patience. 

"Spell went wrong?" It sounded strange to his ears, and stranger yet to write the note down. 

"Quite likely. Sherlock is investigating." 

"But not you." 

"I haven't the time nor the energy," Mycroft admitted. 

"So..." Greg trailed off. "So uh. Your brother is. Is he like you then? Uh." 

Mycroft frowned at him, then he tilted his head. "You mean, is Sherlock a mage? No. Not in the least. The vast majority of people are born into this world without the correct spark within them that allows them to make corrections to the fabric of existence." 

"You mean. Do magic." 

"Yes, if I wanted to be vulgar, that would be what I meant." Mycroft's face took on the pinched look again. 

"And that... the deceased. Was also a mage? One of you?" 

"So I thought." 

Greg checked back on his notes of his first encounter with Mycroft. "So there's a... high society of mages, and a low society?" 

Mycroft sighed. "Must we continue with this farce?" 

"If you want my help with something," Greg said evenly, "Then yes. Sir." 

"Well then," Mycroft said wearily, "Yes, if you must be crass about it, there is a 'high society' of mages, picked out from not only those with a spark of potential within them but also the wit and will to use it, and a 'low society' of mages, made mostly by those with the spark but no wit, or no will. We call them 'hedge-mages', and they are for the most part mostly just a danger to themselves." 

"And you try to get rid of them?" 

"Heavens no. There'd be a bloodbath. We try to keep an eye on them. But I recognise that we've very likely been terribly lax in this regard recently, at least where Whitechapel is concerned." 

Somehow, Greg didn't think that Mycroft was being absolutely forthright about that. "So what happened to that girl. Is it going to keep happening?" 

"It already has," Mycroft said soberly. "And therein lies the favour that I need. Very soon, I may become far more busy than I should. I may no longer have the time to keep an eye on my brother, and he is now treading waters that are far deeper than what he is used to." 

"You want me to keep an eye on him?" 

"No. That might be impossible." Mycroft said pensively. "You and your men have been taken off this case. It is, after all, a Merlin case. But perhaps your natural inquisitiveness should follow its course." 

"… you're saying," Greg said, very slowly, "That you want me to keep working the case on my own dime." 

"You'll be properly recompensed if that's your concern." 

"That's bribery." Greg shook his head. "Fine. I was going to do it anyway. And?" 

"And I want you to keep me updated. Send a telegram to this address every evening. Even if there's no update, let me know." Mycroft drew out a card, and left it on the armrest of his chair. "Your account will be reimbursed for the cost of the telegrams. Or more, if you wish. Some days, I may wish to meet and discuss further. I would like you to make yourself available for such meetings as and when I require. Again, you will be reimbursed for your time should you require it." 

"You want me to spy on your brother." 

"Not that," Mycroft said impatiently. "But I need data, and I think I'm about to have my hands full wrangling 'high society', if you will." 

Something _had_ happened. Big enough to cause some sort of upheaval, on high, enough for someone as obviously proud as Mycroft Holmes to have to ask Greg for help on something so simple. "So. This 'accident' happened to a high society bigwig? Recently? Between you skipping out and then reappearing in here?" 

Anguish flickered onto Mycroft's face, briefly twisting it, and then it was smoothed away, so quickly that Greg blinked to see it, startled. "Yes," Mycroft said tightly. "You could say that."

II.

John was locking up the practice for the day when one of Sherlock's unkempt little street urchins skipped up to him, bold as you please. Since the stories in the Strand had taken off, the little monsters had started to ask for bigger and bigger tips, but John didn't have the heart to refuse. He was, after all, earning a fair income from the stories.

"Message for you from Mister 'Olmes," the urchin said self-importantly, and passed John a grimy piece of paper, accepting a handful of shillings in return. 

_Go to the Whitechapel mortuary at once. Ask for Lestrade. -SH_

Glumly, John regarded the darkening sky, then he had the paper crunched up into a ball in his pocket, stepping out onto the street to hail a cab. Once on his way in a hansom, he folded the paper into his notebook, and wrote down the time and the circumstance, out of habit. True to Sherlock's word, he hadn't been home all of the last two days, and John hadn't quite been worried: it was common for Sherlock to keep odd hours, after all. 

There hadn't been any word of the dead woman in the papers, and after two days John was now wondering, uncomfortably, if he'd quite imagined it all: Mycroft disappearing, that trick with the nail, everything. He stared out at the grimy London streets as they rattled past, paid the driver in a half-daze when they reached the mortuary, and walked briskly inside. One good consequence of the current popularity of the Strand stories was that none of the constables stopped him on his way in, and when he asked for the Inspector, a young constable instantly volunteered to take him through. 

The mortuary was underground, cold and dank and technically the same part of the building as the Whitechapel infirmary. It was almost blisteringly cold, and John found himself wondering in surprise how that had been done as he shivered and shoved his hands in his pockets. Rows and rows of the dead were in the room, tagged neatly, naked, covered partly in sheets, some of them with autopsies only partly done: it seemed clear that the usual staff of the mortuary had been cleared out posthaste. The only people in the large chamber that stank of embalming fluid and death were Sherlock, Lestrade and a dark-haired woman in wool coat that had once been white, but which was now growing faintly gray, her hair done up in a mousy, messy bun, wide-eyed, her smile nervous as John approached. 

"Uh. Doctor Watson, yes?" the woman said breathlessly, extending a gloved hand for a moment before she stopped and nervously placed her stained hands back on the gurney before her: her hands were wrapped in some sort of oily, sheened fabric of sorts, discolored by embalming fluid. "I'm Molly Hooper. Pleased to meet you." 

John stared at Sherlock and Lestrade, mildly offended that _they_ hadn't thought to do the honors. Sherlock was ignoring them all, staring down at the gurney, while Lestrade - Lestrade looked distinctly pale and ill and ease. The corpse on the gurney was that of the dead victim from Buck's Row, mid autopsy, and John swallowed hard before managing a tight, "Pleased," in turn, then, weakly, "I'm not entirely certain if this is an appropriate place for a lady-" 

"Don't be tedious," Sherlock said absently, studying the body sharply. "Mycroft sent Miss Hooper. She's a necromancer." 

Hooper stiffened. "That's... not quite the polite word for it, Mister Holmes. I'm a _psychopomp_." 

"Guiding souls to the underworld?" John was vaguely up to date with his classics. Hooper beamed, however. 

"Exactly!" 

Lestrade glanced around them as though expecting to be attacked at any moment. "So. Are we all. Surrounded by ghosts right now?" 

"I did a general cleansing on the rest when I arrived," Hooper said brightly, and held up her strangely gloved hands as though it would explain it all. "That's why it's a little chilly." 

Lestrade shuddered, though he wrote down a note in his book. "All right. Forget I asked. Why are we here, Holmes?" 

"Because Miss Hooper is going to perform an autopsy. Of sorts," Sherlock amended impatiently. "And I'll like all of you to watch so that we can hopefully, collectively, ask her the right questions that will help me get to the bottom of this." 

"She's going to summon the ghost of the girl back from the dead?" Lestrade grew even paler. 

"It's not like that," Hooper muttered. 

"If you're going to be squeamish about it you may leave," Sherlock said, and didn't even bother to hide his condescension. Lestrade glowered at him, hand clenching tight over his pencil for a moment, then he scowled. 

"Have at it then. It won't be as bad as that dog, I don't wonder." 

John ignored the both of them, edging closer to the corpse. His original impression had been right. The victim's head had been severed, as though with an extremely sharp knife - the edges of the skit weren't torn or anything. The body had long bled out, the arterial blood soaking out through the neck: the victim's hair was filthy and matted, her eyes wide and staring. Her expression was one of utter shock, frozen at the point of death. Rigor mortis had already stepped in, but there was something strange about the body, and it took John a moment to place it: there was no stench of guts and voided bowels. That entire section within her had been removed. Cauterised. 

"What caused that?" John pointed at the severed arteries. "She's been hollowed out. Very neatly. Spine intact, though. Just... everything from the lungs down to her gut, including the uterus. Gone." 

"Spell warp," Hooper said earnestly. "I've seen it before, just not on this sort of scale. When a spell goes wrong, the backlash grounds itself in the caster if there isn't sufficient protections. Then it eats enough flesh to draw form, and comes out." 

Lestrade grew thin-lipped at that, though he merely made notes. Sherlock, however, was frowning at the body. "The head was removed. That didn't happen in the other body I saw." 

"What body?" John asked, but Sherlock merely waved a dismissive hand at him. 

"That wasn't from the _krigor_. See here." Hooper took a jar from her pocket - iron filaments, John realized. She sprinkled some on the gurney beside the severed head, then some beside the gaping torso. The filaments wobbled and shifted closer, then scattered slightly: the ones nearer to the krigor took on a slightly hexagonal pattern, while the ones near the neck tried to shuffle into a straight line. "Two separate spells." 

"A spell did it. A wayward one from Mycroft and his friends?" Sherlock scowled. "Can you tell?" 

"No. I can't tell when a spell was cast - not precisely. It was around the same time, so yes, possibly it was a wayward spell. She was dead already anyway." Hooper pointed at the torso. "The moment a _krigor_ emerges... you're not quite right about the lungs down, Doctor. If you'd look closer, you'll see that her heart is gone. A backlash-grown parasite starts by going upstream to the heart and attaching itself to it. Then it grows. When it's ready to emerge, it's from a puppet, not a person." 

Sherlock's jaw tensed, as though in anger, to John's surprise. He'd seen Sherlock in a range of petty moods, usually some flavour of impatience of sorts or irritation, but never in a black fury, not like this. 

"She still bled out," John said doubtfully. "If the heart's gone, that wouldn't have pumped out like that." 

" _Krigors_ don't feed the way you think," Hooper pointed at the filaments again. "The entire process is semi-arcane. They're a type of arcanic parasite. The reason why there was a lot of blood even at the end was because they rework the structure of the host as they feed, to keep the host going until they're ready to emerge. It's not entirely blood that you saw in the alley. It's also, um. Just think of it as birthing fluid. That'll be my guess. I've never actually seen one before." 

John took in a slow breath through his mouth. Nope. That didn't help. 

"Iron gets attracted to magic?" Lestrade asked awkwardly, staring at the filaments, while John struggled with his nausea, as though unsure as to whether to speak. "Why's that?" 

"Long explanation. Not relevant," Sherlock said impatiently, even as Hooper opened her mouth, then she closed it, blushing. "Right. Call her soul in. I need to talk to her." 

"I was meaning to tell you," Hooper said, a little stiffly. "I can't. A _krigor_ 's birth is highly traumatic to the host. Her soul's in shreds. _However_ ," she added quickly, "I _can_ tell you how powerful she was when she passed, and maybe what spell she was using that went wrong." 

"Better than nothing," Sherlock decided, then added, to John's further surprise, "Thank you." 

"I don't think that you're going to like this part, Inspector," Hooper told Lestrade, who grimaced. 

"Don't worry about me, Miss Hooper." 

"Right then. Um. Doctor Watson? Please bar the door." Hooper let out a nervous laugh. "We don't want the body to get misplaced, do we?" 

"I'm starting to get a bad feeling about this," John told Sherlock, appalled, but Sherlock merely sniffed, already sorting through the victim's remains. 

"What was her name?" Hooper asked Lestrade timidly. "I need it for the incantation." 

Lestrade checked his notes, even as John closed and locked the door, then as an afterthought, jammed a chair under the knob. "Mary. Mary Nichols."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Overall there will be more Greg and Mycroft chapters than everyone else. This is after all a Mystrade story. :)

iii.

Greg was already feeling ill and uncomfortable about the entire business in the mortuary, and Watson's matter-of-fact discussion about missing organs hadn't helped. He'd long thought himself inured to death after a couple of decades in the force, but clearly he hadn't seen anything yet. Trying to distract himself by asking questions hadn't quite helped, and he felt lost and adrift and with the distinct feeling that he should be holding his gun, never a good combination for a police officer.

Sherlock looked absolutely alert and attentive, however, the same look he always got whenever working a case, and that was some relief, at least. 

The relief didn't last. Hooper told all of them to take a few steps back, and then she drew a line of salt on the ground from a large jar in her large ladies' bag, around the gurney. Greg goggled at it, but Sherlock only made an impatient sound and prowled around as Hooper set up strange... ingredients... around the outer perimeter of the salt. Here a strange orange flower, there a jar of what looked like congealed blood... Greg dutifully wrote it all down, but his hand felt numb as he scratched away at his book, and he knew that when he reread his notes later he'd probably find them utterly incomprehensible. 

Watson came up to stand beside him. "Not quite how I expected my evening to go," the doctor whispered, and Greg found himself stifling a bubble of hysterical laughter. 

"Nor me." Greg whispered back, and Watson offered him a wry smile under his ridiculous moustache. "Did you know? Er. About Sherlock. And his brother." 

"Not in the least," Watson said mildly. 

"You seem to be taking it well." 

Watson glanced at Greg in surprise. "Why wouldn't I be? I've seen a great number of strange things in Afghanistan. Hard to explain-" 

"Silence please," Sherlock cut in, and Watson quietened, looking abashed. Molly had positioned herself at the foot of the gurney, just inside the salt circle, and she was whispering to herself, some sort of rhyming, fluid chant in some language that Greg had never heard of, all harsh consonants. He tried to write down an impression of it for a moment, but quickly gave up, watching instead, as Molly's eyes closed, her hands raising up, palm-up. 

"It's skaldic," Sherlock said, as though to himself, so softly that Greg nearly missed it. "That's interesting. "She's repeating a dræplingr." 

"What's that?" Watson asked, openly curious, but Sherlock hushed him instead, his expression avid, almost hungry as he stared at the gurney. 

God in Heaven. Had the corpse's knee just twitched? 

Then the body abruptly sat up, without the head, and Watson let out a loud yelp, clutching at Sherlock's arm, even as Greg backpedalled, lost his balance, and fell heavily on his arse on the ground. Sherlock impatiently shrugged off Watson's grip, stepping closer, frowning. Hooper's oddly complex incantation seemed to change smoothly, the words growing different, and Sherlock watched as the body grew less stiff, leaning back, as though against an invisible wall. 

"She's taking the body back to the moment before death," Sherlock explained absently, as though discussing the weather. "Interesting. See that, Watson. Limbs twitchy, tense. She was an addict. The tracks on her arm, some were old, some were fresh. She was..." the body's fingers jerked up, the fingers of the left hand arched as though holding a syringe. On the gurney, the head's eyes closed jerkily, mouth curling into a faint smile, and the body lay back, inert. "There, she dosed up. Curious. Perhaps she used a spell to enhance the sensations?" 

They watched, but the body continued to loll against the wall, dreaming and silent, the mouth closed. After half an hour, the head's eyes blinked open, mouth gaping wide, which gave Watson a bad turn, but then that stretched further into a quarter of an hour. Sherlock sucked in a sharp, irritable breath, looking over to Hooper, but before he could speak, body abruptly arched up, so wildly that it almost rolled off the gurney. Greg let out a startled, horrified oath, as the feet drummed on the steel and the hands clawed on the metal. The gurney had been bolted down, thankfully, but the action caused the head to roll off, and as Greg watched, dumbly, it scattered the circle of salt as it went across the floor. 

Instantly, the headless corpse bolted to its feet, hands clawed, but even as Watson let out a cry and drew his revolver, Hooper's chanting changed again, growing urgent, louder. Dimly, Greg was aware of someone banging on the door, demanding to know what was happening, but he watched helplessly instead, as Hooper's hand shot up, palm outwards. The body froze, and Hooper depressed her hand, in a soothing, downward motion, and it lay back down, twitching, then growing still once more. Hooper let out a long breath, stopping her chant, then she sighed and stepped over to pick up the head, setting it back on the gurney. 

"All done," Hooper said brightly. "Got a little hairy at the end... did I say something wrong?" 

Greg and Watson gaped at her. Sherlock was the first to recover - he crossed over to the door, pushing the chair aside and opening it a fraction, whispering something to the people outside, then closing it again. Shakily, Greg remembered to pick himself up. 

"Christ." Greg said, and scrubbed a palm over his face. "That's something to keep me up at night." 

"So what was the spell that went wrong?" Watson had fared a little better. Perhaps Afghanistan was good for the soul. "Did she do a spell? Just after she dosed?" 

"Not at all." Hooper's smile faded. "The _krigor_ came out of her anyway, but... there was no spell." 

"Wait," Greg said, frowning. "Let me get this right. How can there be no spell? This... parasite is caused when a spell goes wrong. Right? Then it develops instantly? Eats very fast and comes out? Or does it, uh. Incubate?" 

"Usually it eats as fast as it can and expels," Hooper says delicately. "Um. Most of the time it's near instantly or within a few minutes. I've heard of a case where it took a day or so, but that was with, um, protections and such, slowing it down. _Krigor_ are rare, though. Needs a big spell, a strong mage. Usually you just get _gasangi_ , or _mosa_ , which aren't always fatal. They're about fist-sized, then accelerate to about horse-sized once they're out..." Holly trailed off. "Maybe she spoke a delayed time spell before she uh. Dosed up. I can rewind the actions. If we salt up the room, I can walk her through her final hour. Since she was drugged during it, though, I'm not sure if she'll be able to answer any-" 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then he frowned at the body. "It wasn't a spell going wrong," he said abruptly. 

Hooper shrugged. "What else could it be?" 

"Test her. What was her strength at?" 

Hooper sprinkled a strange sort of pink salt over the corpse's forehead, waiting, then she frowned to herself and followed that up by pressing a strange curved tooth on the tongue. She blinked at it, then followed up by inserting a strange, silvery clockwork device, like a watch with no clock face, into the body's belly cavity, angling it up close to the ribs. 

Finally, she straightened up, her face scrunched in disbelief. "Nothing. She wasn't a mage at all. She was UnGifted." 

"I thought so," Sherlock said flatly, and strode for the door. 

"How did she get the _krigor_ in her then?" Watson demanded, blindsided and scrambling for details. "If no spell happened? Did someone cast a spell on her?" 

"She put it into her blood herself," Sherlock said impatiently, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, at the door, and at their blank expressions, he mimed plunging a needle into his arm.

2.0.

Mycroft found Inspector Lestrade drinking in a dimly lit pub, thick with smoke, with the grim determination of a man about to drink until either he lost consciousness or his liver gave out. The pub was crowded, full of what looked like off-duty police, but Mycroft's homing spell in his card helped him pick out Lestrade in the far corner, at the bar.

"'eyy," Lestrade slurred, as Mycroft got close. "It's the Merlin!" 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and murmured a ghazal under his breath, pressing his palm on Lestrade's arm as he did so. The Inspector flinched, then blinked rapidly as he sobered up, his blood purging itself of the toxins in it, then he scowled down at Mycroft's grip. "Christ. You didn't have to do that." 

"You ignored my telegram." 

"Needed the night off." Lestrade nodded at the pub. "Talk to you tomorrow." 

"Now," Mycroft said, his tone edged, and Lestrade glared at him. That was strange, enough that Mycroft's temper lost some of its edge. He had grown up learning the correct sort of comportment that would allow him to carry himself in a way that no man would think to question him; in the world of adepts, his bloodline and his talent meant that he had been born into influence, and had always known how to wield it. Outside that world, Mycroft had cultivated enough roots in the British Government to allow him to manipulate London to his wishes should he choose, and it had been a very long time since he had met someone other than Sherlock who dared to defy him. 

"You could ask nicely, you know." Lestrade said mildly, unafraid, and that was interesting as well, Mycroft decided, with a blink. Usually the UnGifted reacted with deference or with fear in the face of one of the Gifted. Lestrade, however, seemed to have already taken it in his stride. 

"Very well," Mycroft swallowed impatience and curiosity together. "Please." 

"There you go. Wasn't hard, was it?" Lestrade got off his stool, and obligingly followed Mycroft out of the pub and into the streets beyond, only dimly lit by the lamps. They got into Mycroft's personal carriage, and Mycroft thumped the roof once Lestrade closed them both in, the horses snorting as they set off at a brisk place. 

"Where're we going?" Lestrade asked dryly. "Or are you going to find someplace to get rid of my body?" 

"Don't tempt me, Inspector," Mycroft muttered, and flinched as Lestrade let out a startled laugh. 

"All right. Christ. I've had a. A very strange day, all right? Not everyday that you watch a necromancer at work," Lestrade said, with brittle cheer. 

Mycroft counted to five in his head and forced himself to be patient. "Yes, and I would have liked to talk about it, instead of receiving a telegram that read 'Just saw the dead rise. Stop. Not a mage. Stop. Sherlock following lead. Stop.'" 

"The lady at the telegram office was giving me a funny look as it is," Lestrade said, with a shaky laugh. "She thought I was 'aving her on. God damn. Do we really have to do this now? I really needed that drink." 

"Yes we do," Mycroft said sharply. "You don't have family waiting for you at home - you're divorced. Your wife was the one who had an affair, and it was a quiet settlement, but it clearly traumatised you. You live in a shoebox of a flat that you only use to sleep in and you-" Mycroft sucked in a sharp breath, and looked away. When he spoke again into the stolid silence, it was with a gruff, "My apologies." 

"Don't mention it." Lestrade said tightly. "Sherlock dumped all that on me when we first met. Still does. He doesn't apologise though." 

"This is very important to me," Mycroft said, as patiently as he could. "So. I would very much appreciate your observations." 

"Your brother's angry about this case. Like I've never seen. That is. I've never seen him take a case so personally." 

"Quite so." Mycroft said shortly. "And?" 

Lestrade described, in stumbling words, Hooper's spell, the actions of the body, and the accident. Mycroft made him describe the actions several times, then Sherlock's reaction, twice, and in the end, brooded as he looked out of the window of the carriage, thinking it over. It wasn't possible. Injecting a _krigor_ into an UnGifted? Impossible. Hooper must have made a mistake. _Krigor_ were arcane parasites. One wouldn't reach anywhere near maturity in an UnGifted: likely it would simply have starved, died, and have been passed out of the body. 

"Seems like it's a murder case after all," Lestrade prompted. "Innit?" 

Mycroft let out a bitter laugh. "I don't know what sort of case it is." 

"Right then," Lestrade said doubtfully. "That was some... well. Witchcraft-" 

"Oh please." 

"It was a spell done," Lestrade said doggedly. "Chanting and all." 

"Your point?" 

"I didn't hear you say anything before you hopped off into thin air." 

"And so?" Mycroft asked, struggling for patience. He didn't have to tell Lestrade that he had on his person at any point in time a number of bespelled objects, that would serve just as well as a spoken spell. Sherlock certainly liked to use that shape-changing artifact, for all his distaste of 'Mycroft's world'. 

"So uh. Miss Hooper, she's a 'psychopomp'? What're you then?" 

"How is this relevant?" 

"It's not," Lestrade said evenly, his jaw set in the flicker of light from a street lamp that they passed. "I was just curious. I've 'ad mad things happen to me today and I'm not sure if I'm going to be headed straight for the loony bin after all this, so this me talking, since someone did a spell on me that made me less drunk than I should be. I'm owed." 

Mycroft's lip curled, about to give Lestrade a piece of his mind about what the Inspector felt he was 'owed', but instead, he found himself letting out a long, deep sigh. "I'm a linguist." 

Lestrade frowned. "Wait. That's not a magic thing. That just means you speak a lot of languages. I'm not an idiot." 

"And how are you to judge what is and is not 'a magic thing'?" Mycroft drawled. When Lestrade blushed a little in embarrassment, he relented. "The vast majority of mages are naturally attuned to one type of spells. Healing, transportation, psychometry... and so on. Each type of spell, in turn, has a natural sort of... lingua franca, shall we say, with which it is easier to construct. For example. You would have heard Miss Hooper speak a skaldic verse in her work." 

"A drayfinger?" Lestrade stumbled over the pronunciation, getting it utterly wrong. "If you're a linguist. That means you're attuned to... more than one type?" 

"I'm attuned to all of them," Mycroft said flatly. "All spells are one to me. And to... a certain degree, my mother and my grandmother before me. Magic has always run hot in my bloodline." 

"But your brother's... not." 

"Yes. Mother was very disappointed. It's unusual for a thoroughbred child to have no Gift whatsoever." 

"Your father's also a mage," Lestrade guessed. 

"Was," Mycroft corrected absently, and grimaced again. 

"Verse? Like uh. Poetry?" Lestrade was, to Mycroft's amusement, actually consulting his notes in the dim light. 

"Yes. Good poetry naturally bends the ear. There's a sort of magic in itself to a perfectly crafted verse, I suppose. And when you charge it with real magic," Mycroft lifted a shoulder into a shrug. "That's how you break and shape the world." Losing interest in the conversation, he added distractedly, "I'll drop you off at home." 

"Oh. Of course." Lestrade jotted down a note. "Is something wrong with Sherlock?" 

"What is?" 

"I told you. He was angry." 

Mycroft studied Lestrade in the light, the honest, belligerent stare. Like it or not Sherlock had accidentally found a friend here, and a loyal one, for all the abuse that Sherlock likely put the poor Inspector through. It made Mycroft feel a swell of unexpected warmth for Gregory Lestrade, and his mouth twitched up into a wry, weary smile. "Two days ago our mother was infected. By a _krigor_. During a battle." 

Lestrade paled. "Oh. God, I'm-" 

"She isn't dead yet," Mycroft cut in sharply, then he sank back against the leather upholstery. "But she should be. It's been two days. She shouldn't have lasted an hour. I thought it was one of the mages in her house, thought I could get the culprit to reverse it but..." he cut himself off. "She isn't dead yet. I slowed the process. But more than that, I think... we aren't facing an ordinary case. It wasn't because of a spell gone wrong." 

"Can't you... magic it better?" 

"What do you think I've been trying all this while?" Mycroft snapped. "I've called in experts. But I have to be careful of them. They might not all mean her well." He passed a palm over his eyes. "So far however. No luck." 

Lestrade nodded slowly. "You could've told me this from the start." 

"And how would that have changed things?" 

"I'll have called in more favours, called in sick, worked on it full time. Sherlock's a friend," Lestrade said firmly, when Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "'Sides. I don't care what Sherlock says. Throw enough boots on a case and it works out usually better rather than worse. If we catch the killer, maybe we can find a way to... reverse whatever he's doing, right? _Something_." 

"… All right," Mycroft said finally. "I'll get the hush order revoked. You can work on the case again. Officially. That'll make things easier." 

"Not getting much luck on your end, eh." Lestrade said mildly, but gently. "Look. I'll try me bloody best, I will. And your brother's a genius. I've never seen him beat." 

"I hope so," Mycroft said pensively. "I do hope so."


	5. Chapter 5

III.

Lestrade was already standing by the cordoned off area when their hansom cab clattered to a stop, grim and bundled up in the bone-deep chill of the London morning. "Body discovered at six in the morning," Lestrade told Sherlock briskly, as Sherlock got off the cab. "Found by a resident who lived at the place where she was dumped. We're questioning him down at a station. No one heard anything. But the street a block down is missing a couple of lamp posts," he said dryly. "Your brother's cleanup was a rush job."

Sherlock grimaced. "I'll mention it to him." 

This time, John was relieved to see Sherlock fall into his usual, almost meditative state, studying the shabby fence and yard, then the doorway where the body still lay. John left him to it, drawing closer to the body instead. She lay against the fence, eyes open, face drawn in horror and shock. Her throat had been cut, with two precise gashes, face swollen and turned to the right. Her belly, like Nichols', had been torn open, gaping wide enough to reveal the missing entrails, and black blood had been splashed liberally over the flagstones and the wooden paling of the fence. There was no sign of a scuffle, and it looked as though the victim had simply sat down for a rest against the fence before her abrupt and brutal death. 

Sherlock leaned down, checking over the body, edging up her lip to look at her teeth, then looking over her hands, one, then the other, He peered at her feet, then at the cavernous hole where her belly had been, then frowned at the gashes at her neck. Then he walked silently around the yard, looking this way and that, before heading up and down the street. Finally, he came back to the body, scowling. "We're done." 

"What?" Lestrade looked startled. "You've got nothing for me?" 

Sherlock pointed at the body. "Another prostitute. She lived near here, likely in one of the lodging houses. She was working the street, but it was an abrupt decision, perhaps she found herself in need of enough money to stay another night. Obvious from her dress and her feet. Another alcoholic. Crochets to supplement her income." He pointed at her wrist. "No needle tracks. But her jaw is stained, as is her collar. She drank something before her death, spilled some of it. Suspect we'll find a needle mark elsewhere, probably right over her heart. She wasn't a drug addict, the killer had to inject her: perhaps he got her guard down by offering her something to drink. And then he cut her throat after sitting her down. Obvious from her posture. The most visible tracks on the ground are hers, round-tipped shoes. She stood there," Sherlock pointed further down the street, "For a while before she was led here. Some scuff marks here," Sherlock pointed closer to the side, "But the street is too dry to make out the other set of prints." 

"So it wasn't like Nichols'?" 

"No, no," Sherlock said impatiently. "Severed head conclusion was incorrect. Killer cut their throats, it was no _krigor_ fight accident. Coincidences like that don't exist." 

"But the iron filings..." John trailed off. Nicols' head hadn't been cut off with a knife. And the new victim's throat had the same, unnaturally neat edges. He lowered his voice. "The killer's a mage." 

Sherlock sniffed. "Well yes, that would have been a fair conclusion, given that the rather elaborate setup and all that business with creating _krigors_. That's the problem with people who have a tenuous attachment to reality. They do so love their unnecessary-" 

"Wait what?" Lestrade interrupted incredulously. "The killer's a what?" 

"It must be so terribly painful," Sherlock said, frowning at them, "To be so very slow. More _importantly_ ," he added irritably, when John started to protest, "The killer felt it was _necessary_ to cut their throats. With a spell. Why?" 

"Why..." John paused. "That's right. He had already infected them. Why not wait?" 

"Why not indeed." Sherlock pursed his lips, studying the mutilated corpse before him. "I'll send Hooper a telegram. I'd like her to perform a separate inquest on the body after the official one. Arrange an appointment at the mortuary for her, Lestrade." 

"Right." Lestrade made a note. "What I don't get is what the point of this all is," he said. "Usually people off another person for money or for passion. Why go to all the trouble to just kill a prostitute?" 

"Why indeed." Sherlock's eyes were narrowed, and Lestrade seemed agitated for a moment, his gaze darting between Sherlock and the body. 

"Unless they're not the point at all," Lestrade pressed. "Are they?" 

"Obviously not. But I would have thought..." Sherlock broke up. "No matter." He began to head towards the main street, and Lestrade dogged his heels. 

"I know why you're worried," Lestrade said firmly. "But it won't help your case, keeping your cards close. Your brother told me about it, all right?" 

"I've put the word out. I'm now going to concentrate my efforts to Whitechapel - it seems the killer's chosen this area for his hunting ground," Sherlock said briskly, without slowing down, avoiding eye contact with Lestrade. "I'll update you when I have more, Inspector." 

"No, you don't get to take that tone with me. Not on this case." Lestrade grabbed Sherlock by the elbow, ignoring Sherlock's indignant stare, and dragged him away from the street, to a quieter corner by the wall of an abandoned, shabby yard. "Now see here," Lestrade said quietly. "I know you're worried about your mum." 

"About your mother?" John repeated, blinking. "What happened?" 

Sherlock shot John a look of annoyance, but exhaled instead. "Fine. Yes I am. I've heard nothing of use and it has been _days_. I don't know how long she has left. Or even if the damage can be reversed - even if it can be stopped." 

"If she's ill-" John began, then he sucked in a sharp breath. "Your mother. She's... she's been. Like those poor women...?" 

"Mycroft froze her into stasis for now," Sherlock said flatly. "Nichols injected herself. The killer had to inject the new victim. He's growing bolder. Left her where she definitely would have been found. But why cut her throat?" 

"If it's not a spell going wrong," John said doubtfully, guessing now, "Then it's just a... parasite? And parasites leave their hosts, don't they? When the host body dies." 

"Yes. Yes that's it," Sherlock murmured to himself, and John felt himself managing a small smile, even in the ugly circumstances. "It's a _krigor_ , but not a krigor. It lives in the body of an UnGifted. Somehow. But it doesn't emerge on its own. The UnGifted needs to be killed. People take a while to bleed to death. The killer could make his or her escape in the meantime, before the _krigor_ emerges. Think! Think! First kill is usually the one with more mistakes. What was the difference? Voluntary injection, involuntary injection. Why change? Why not just find another junkie and give him or her a poisoned syringe?" 

"There was one more murdered victim between these two," Lestrade pointed out, checking his notes. "The one you haven't handed over to the mortuary, I should add." 

"That one? If you know about it, then you should also know that Mycroft has it." Sherlock glared at his feet. "He was a bricklayer. Lestrade's height. He had needle tracks on his arms as well, addict, drank or shot up his pay, shabby clothes, lived in Whitechapel, from the mud on his shoes, no family. No idea how he got to... to where he died. That’s why Mycroft has the body. He's set a few people to studying it." 

"So the first two were addicts," John summed up. "Third victim wasn't. Maybe he distributed the fake drugs among a few addicts, but not all of it worked?" 

Sherlock set his jaw. "Tell Mrs Hudson-" 

"-that you'll be away for at least another couple of days?" John finished skeptically. "Really, Holmes. This is rather too dangerous for you to go about alone." 

"Irrelevant. I need more data," Sherlock snapped, and darted out to the street, hailing a hansom cab. 

John stayed where he was, glumly, and watched until Sherlock's cab had pulled away down the empty streets before saying, "So. About his mother?" 

Lestrade nodded resignedly. "Bad odds." 

"I want to be at the inquest. The second one." John decided. It was something that he could do. He swallowed the burst of anger that he felt, thinking of the pain that Sherlock and his brother had likely bottled tight for days, and clenched his fists. "If I may." 

"Of course. I'll let you know."

3.0.

Inspector Lestrade was nervously fiddling with his hat when he was showed into the Stranger's Room, and it took Jeffries a couple of patient tries before the Inspector relinquished hat and coat. Lestrade made an effort to dress well within his means, at least: although his clothes were not well made by Mycroft's standards, they were adequate for a police officer and seemed clean. Within the well-lit warmth of the Stranger's Room and with some colour to his cheeks, Lestrade was handsome: far more handsome than Mycroft would have imagined from Watson's stories, and he smiled as he rose up from his armchair to wave Lestrade to a seat before the fireplace.

They were alone in the Stranger's Room today through Mycroft's insistence, and Lestrade gawked openly at the rich furnishings, the walnut antique armchairs and tables, the lush velvet of the drapes and the gigantic painting that occupied most of one wall, a romanticised oil painting of the Sussex countryside. "Drink?" Mycroft invited. "What's your poison, Inspector?" 

"Uh. No thanks." Lestrade tried, but was persuaded to have a whisky, and fidgeted in his armchair until it arrived - whisky for the Inspector, a decent red for Mycroft. "Said you wanted to see me." 

If Mycroft had been any less stressed about his mother and handling the Tower's increasing clamour he would have enjoyed how Lestrade looked, nervous and anxious to please, with his fingers clasped in his lap like a naughty schoolboy. "How is the investigation proceeding?" 

"Uh well." Lestrade consulted his notes. "We've been interviewing the victims' known associates. So far no promising leads, though one witness feels that she saw Chapman with a 'shabby-genteel' man. She hadn't been curious, and-" 

"No matter. A mage given to murder would at least know to use a glamour. What of the inquest?" 

"Don't Hooper report to you?" 

"She does," Mycroft said curtly, "But I would like your version as well." 

"Er. Yes. Dr Watson attended, but not Mister Holmes - er... your brother - he's dropped out of sight again. Chapman had followed the murderer to the doorway. She was tipsy and he gave her something to drink that knocked her out. Killer sat her down and injected her in the heart. Then he cut her throat with... uh, with a spell, and the uh, monster came out a bit after. Quarter of an hour after. We timed it." 

"Hm." Mycroft closed his eyes. "That clears something up. The killer was careless this round. He should have completely severed Chapman's head as well." 

"He should've?" 

"With the head severed, Hooper's spell would not show the timing or sequence of the injection, the throat cutting and the emergence. Clearly there's a sequence." 

"Injection, then throat cut, then fifteen minutes to the emergence." Lestrade checked his notes again. "That happened in the first uh. First Hooper inquest. Nichols' eyes were closed at first. Then she had a... had a reaction: eyes and mouth opened. But only a quarter of an hour later did the uh, thing come out." 

"The killer's adapting," Mycroft said abruptly. "He tried to dose addicts at first. Like Nichols. He didn't count for them wandering off on their own to dose up. It took him half an hour to track Nichols down, after which he killed her. Quarter of an hour later, emergence. He dosed Emers, also an addict. Emers however managed to escape him, going out of his reach. He died anyway, but the killer couldn't have known that. In his frustration, he decided to change the game." 

That changed things. Mycroft had been working under the suspicion that Emers had been sent to attack Victoria. But it was quite possible that within Emers, the growing _krigor_ had simply animated its host to seek out its true food, instead - the arcane - and Emers had stumbled into Mayfair, the _krigor_ eating wards as it went, devouring it, until Emers had wandered out into the eternal summer. There had still been enough left of Emers in the pocket summer to hang up his coat with the rest - social conditioning - but then he had gone to the maze to die, the _krigor_ glutted enough from the pocket summer to grow gigantic. 

But if not Victoria, then who? What was the point? Or was there no point at all, just madness? 

Lestrade nodded, industriously taking notes. "Killer wants control. So uh. What do your... people do? When there's a killer mage on the loose?" 

"Usually? Quietly excise him. But it's rare. Only a select number of people have enough of the Gift to be taught, and we're a fairly small society. Everyone knows everyone. And besides. Had there been _krigor_ research done like this, by any of the Gifted anywhere in the world, I would have heard of it. To make a _krigor_ viable from an UnGifted..." Mycroft had personally checked Hooper's work after the second inquest, if secretly, and had to conclude that she had been right. Chapman and Nichols - and Emers besides - were UnGifted. 

Lestrade frowned at what he was writing. "So it's quite likely some breed of nutter. Looking just to make chaos. Maybe a 'hedge-mage' after all. Someone you people didn't pick up." 

"It would appear so." 

"How, ah. How's your mum holding up?" 

"Still alive. We're starving the _krigor_ within her, trying to keep its size down. Plans are being made for its extraction." 

"You don't sound confident," Lestrade said soberly. 

"No," Mycroft admitted. "Not in the least." 

"You can't just... cut it out?" 

"It's in her bloodstream... it's not a parasite that has its own form and grows. It _takes_ form from its host. So it's not a simple matter of excising a growth. Arcane parasites are spells within their own right. They can be undone, but there's never been a successful way to 'undo' a _krigor_." 

"Maybe it'll help if we find the killer," Lestrade said hopefully. "You could find his research. How he managed to make these things 'viable'. If it's a spell that uh, works with a drug or is in liquid form when he injects it. Maybe you could work backwards and find a cure." 

"That's the hope that I have." Mycroft was slightly impressed. Lestrade had managed to arrive at the crux of the problem, with absolutely no training and no prior exposure or knowledge of the Gifted until relatively recently. 

"The papers got wind of it as well," Lestrade added. "Can't keep a lid on it now." 

Mycroft nodded. "The leak to the press was from my end. You've been doing a door to door inquiry, Inspector. Can't keep _that_ under wraps. We might as well control the fallout." 

"Well thanks," Lestrade said dryly. "For all the sudden stress and pressure. We're chock full of other Inspectors right now, running the Whitechapel beat. Press has been having a field day." 

"Yes, I apologise for that," Mycroft said insincerely. He didn't quite care in the least how the sensational press in the UnGifted world functioned - but at least they _had_ a function. With speculation running so rife, Mycroft could now quietly put a few checks in place and concentrate on the Tower. 

"D'you have suspects? Among your sort?" 

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, but Lestrade stared back at him evenly, and after a while, it was Mycroft who glanced away, at the fire. Yes. The Inspector had his depths. "I do. Investigations are also proceeding on my end. It is my hope that it does not converge with yours." 

"Why's that?" 

"Because it may culminate in the deaths of good men like yourself," Mycroft pointed out in a low and sardonic drawl, and Lestrade flushed a little, perhaps in embarrassment. It looked becoming on him, and Mycroft admired the view without bothering to hide his interest. He was, after all, in the Stranger's Room: in London the Diogenes Club was the seat of Mycroft's power, and in this place he could not be threatened. 

Lestrade, however, blinked and looked surprised instead of growing angry or confused as Mycroft would have thought, and the Inspector drained his whisky, setting it aside with what looked like nervousness. Hm. Interesting. Perhaps Mycroft's check into Lestrade's background had not been so thorough. But that would have to wait. 

"I do actually have a reason for asking you to come here tonight," Mycroft said finally, solemnly. "It occurs to me that the current sum of evidence does point towards the 'low society', shall we say. I intend to make an initial foray personally. I have had agents looking into the matter, but they have not been particularly effective. How good a shot are you, Inspector?" 

"Fair." Lestrade frowned at him. "If you're expecting trouble-" 

"A sudden convergence of police will make matters difficult to pursue." Mycroft clapped his hands once, and Jeffries appeared, holding an small oak box, that he passed to Lestrade. "Iron-tipped bullets. The ammunition will fit your service revolver." 

"Right." To the Inspector's credit, he began reloading his revolver at once with the new ammunition, then pocketed the rest. "When do we leave?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double chapter update.

IV.

Even Mrs Hudson had been growing excitable about the news every morning. It wasn't often that a murder blew up into international attention: it seemed that even the press in America was interested. The murderer had tentatively been named the Leather Apron, and one poor soul had even been arrested, but was released when his alibis worked out. John didn't envy poor Lestrade and the others in the CID. The pressure was mounting on them to get a result.

"I just hope that Mister Holmes will catch the killer soon," Mrs Hudson said, as she brought up John's breakfast. "He hasn't been home for days." 

John nodded, uneasy. "I’m sure he's hot on the chase," he told Mrs Hudson, a lie, but it seemed to soothe her, and she headed back down the steps, murmuring to herself about those 'poor girls'. John ate mechanically, reading through the papers as he did so. Speculation was running rampant, as were tip offs and opinion pieces. He wondered if Mycroft's hand was behind the determined lack of detail in the press about the mutilation: if the man was powerful enough to originally get Nichols' murder taken off the hands of the police, perhaps he was also powerful enough to influence the press. All Sherlock had said of what Mycroft did for a living was that he was a 'minor government official', which, on hindsight, was clearly a lie. 

Annoyingly enough, he couldn't escape the so-called Leather Apron Murders even at work. His patients all seemed to have heard of it, and all of them were painfully curious about 'Mr Holmes' opinion' or 'Mr Holmes' work'. Not for the first time, John vaguely regretted how the originally altruistic intention of making sure that Sherlock received the proper credit for his work had somehow metasized into notoriety, and suffered through the day with curt responses and pointed attempts to actually diagnose his patients. 

No message awaited him when he locked up for the day, and John made his way back to Baker Street with a gloomy mind. He was worried over Sherlock's mother, about the consequences of having no leads whatsoever for nearly a month now since the Chapman murder. Was Mrs Holmes still alive? The thought didn't bear thinking. Besides, how well could she be, with a parasite like that within her, eating her organs? The medical man in John recoiled from the very idea. 

Back at 221B, John had a cold supper, then went through the letters for the day. Most were addressed to Sherlock, which he set aside in a neat pile on the mantelpiece. One was for John - from the editor of the Strand, no less, yet again not so politely inquiring whether Sherlock was investigating the Leather Apron murders. Imagine the scoop! John shook his head and tossed the letter into the fire. Sherlock had told John that he would never be able to publish this case, and John was a man of his word. 

He still made his notes though. He noted down the date - 29 September, 1888 - and then a summary of the day's papers. Much speculation had been paid to the witness account of man of 'shabby-genteel' appearance, and John noted that down, and clipped out one of the better illustrations to fold into his book. He was folding it into place and gumming it down when there was the sound of someone taking the steps up at a ferocious rate, accompanied by Mrs Hudson's loud protests. 

"Message for you from Mister 'Olmes!" It was yet another one of the Irregulars, a young boy with matted brown hair. Under the filth of his face, he was beaming from ear to ear. The Leather Apron murders had caught the imagination of the Irregulars, inured to death and privation on the streets as they were. Though then again, why wouldn't they be intrigued? The two known murders had both been in Whitechapel, and slums like Whitechapel were where most of the Irregulars made their homes. 

"Right," John took the note, paid up, and shooed the boy away, listening for the second round of Mrs Hudson's protests as mud was re-tracked over her floors. John opened the scrunched up note. 

_Castle Alley. Whitechapel. Come at once. Bring your gun. Don't bring bullets. -SH_

John stared at the note in surprise, then he shrugged and obeyed, hurrying to put on his coat, then emptying out his revolver. On his way down, he passed Mrs Hudson by the door, looking tense and worried. "Don't get into too much trouble, Doctor," she said nervously. 

"You know me, Mrs Hudson," John tried to sound reassuring. "Practical and boring, all the way." The weight of the empty gun in his coat felt like a solid lie. 

He still felt a thrill of anticipation as the hansom rattled quickly away to Whitechapel. The cabbie seemed excited, despite John's attempts to pull his hat down over his eyes and not get made out. Perhaps few people went from Baker Street to Whitechapel directly at this hour. The sinking feeling John had that he had been recognised was deepened when, at Castle Alley, the cabbie refused payment. "Just you an' Mister 'Olmes catch Leather Apron good, Doc," the cabbie whispered, then the hansom left in a hurry, horses snorting. 

Depressed, John stood under a street lamp and tried not to feel hemmed in. Whitechapel was a stinking, overcrowded midden heap in the shape of human habitation, and John flinched as rats scuttled across the flagstones not inches away, ignoring him, bold as brass. He could feel the familiar weight of his revolver in his pocket, but he had no bullets, and he was standing out like a sore thumb, even in his old coat. There was an oily, gritty feel to the air, as well as a near-overpowering stench of days-old vomit, and John tried not to breathe too deeply, looking about. 

After ten minutes, John was wondering whether he should head _in_ to Castle Alley, perhaps, when a ragged beggar edged up towards him. Even from an arm's length away, the stink of the man made John recoil in disgust, coughing, and he eyed the beggar in alarm. Straggly, shoulder-length hair, a sallow face, possibly jaundiced, and a rolling eye over a manic grin, teeth loose and black. "Penny for your thoughts," the beggar asked, in a servile voice, and coughed, a proper workhouse cough, chronic and thick. 

"My apologies, I don't have change," John said politely, edging away, and was annoyed to see the beggar following, even as he stepped into the mouth of Castle Alley. 

"What about a penny for a handful of iron-tipped bullets?" 

John stared at the beggar again, blinking, just in time to see the man look away and straighten up. He seemed to put on a hand in height, his poise straightening to Sherlock's ramrod correctness, and when the 'beggar' looked back, it was most definitely Sherlock, under all that filth and fake hair. "Good old Watson," Sherlock said, his amusement sharp and not entirely kind, handing over a velvet bag palmed from a filthy sleeve. "Load those into your gun quickly." 

"Expecting trouble, are we?" John did so, and tried not to look too relieved. Sherlock looked well, under his disguise, and his eyes were glittering, caught up in the chase. 

"Quite so." Sherlock murmured, in a hushed voice. "Come on." 

John followed Sherlock deeper into the alley. "Are we going to lie in wait?" 

Sherlock pulled a face. "If you want to put it crudely. This is prime hunting time for our killer. But first we are going to meet some of my new friends." It was John's turn to grimace. Sherlock had an exceedingly colourful group of 'friends', meaning informants, and he could only imagine how disreputable the ones in Whitechapel were, particularly if Sherlock was dressed like this. "Not like that," Sherlock added crisply. "There was indeed an underground circuit of hedge-mages living in Whitechapel. Low level practitioners, turning out charms and potions and such, most of it barely workable, but it was fairly lucrative trade, until recently." 

"Word got out that a mage is behind it?" 

"No, no," Sherlock said impatiently. "Well. Not among the unwashed masses as a whole. But among the hedge-mages, yes. Mycroft has been cracking down on the circuits, particularly the one in Whitechapel. Those who haven't been rounded up are all in hiding. I've spent the better part of this month tracking them down. They're frightened but they're willing to help." 

"And they'll be better than just... calling your brother in?" 

Sherlock sniffed. "Mycroft is a very powerful practitioner, yes. Probably the most powerful practitioner in Europe. But he wields his ability with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. But even so. There are types of magic that Mycroft and his people disdain for being beneath them. More loss to them. But more _importantly_ , if the killer's a mage, then I don't know who else to trust but those with the most to lose from this mess." 

John puzzled this over for a moment, then he gave in. Life with Sherlock was often a whirlwind that only made sense at the very end, when the case was closed. And God, did John want this case to close. "You think that the killer will strike tonight?" 

"No. I don't know that. I know frustratingly little of this entire mess," Sherlock added snappishly. "That's the problem when magic is involved. But I do know that these people might be able to put us onto a scent tonight, and I'd like to get _somewhere_." 

"Lead on."

b.

Oddly enough, the tiny coven of hedge-witches visibly relaxed when Sherlock led Watson down into the cellar of the lodging house: but then again, Watson's honest, guileless face had always had that effect on women, in Sherlock's experience. The witches had managed to avoid Mycroft's sweep by selling their stock through intermediaries, and by hiding out under a lodging house belonging to the sister of the coven leader.

"Bless you," one of the witches even said, a woman in her late forties with a worn, leathery face, a bricklayer's wife, marked by childhood polio. There were three witches, all dressed for the occasion in black: the effect was somewhat ruined by the raggedness of their clothes and the rudeness of their location. The cellar smelled determinedly of sewage and cabbage in equal measure, likely from a bad pipe somewhere close, and of the women, as far as Sherlock could tell, only the youngest one had more talent than a faint ember. She was freckled, with red hair, an orphan, a typist. All of the details that Sherlock could pick up all at once from her clothes and face were boring. The only thing that interested him about her was her talent. 

He had come to them because the coven specialised in divination, an unreliable type of magic that Mycroft and the adepts never quite bothered to learn. It was only worthwhile as a parlour trick, after all, and was notoriously prone to failure. Over the past two days, Sherlock had started to understand why. Divination, at its core, was fueled not by precision but by emotion. It was longing that the spell fed on, not pure arcane energy. And that much he had, hopefully enough. Sherlock _needed_ to catch this killer. His mother's life likely depended on it. 

Annoyingly enough, the two older women insisted on conducting some sort of ritual in a moaning voice, tearing at their hair and prancing around the room. It was all fakery: Sherlock had been around _real_ magic almost all of his childhood life, up until he had escaped to Eton - but Watson looked duly impressed, industriously taking down notes. Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Sherlock sat in a corner of the room, impatiently checking a pocket watch. Eventually, the witches called him over, to where the youngest witch was murmuring over a freshly brewed cup of tea. All doggerel, her words, spoken in a thick Liverpudlian accent, almost no magic to speak of - not compared to Victoria or Mycroft. But Sherlock waited anyway, and kept his peace, until she motioned for him to pour the tea. 

Tea leaf divination. If Victoria Holmes ever heard that her youngest son was involved in something like this, she would have been mortified. 

With that on his mind, Sherlock pinned the thought of the murderer forward, his deductions, his impressions, and poured the cup of tea over a clean piece of white cloth, stretched over a bowl and weighted down. Watson leaned forward eagerly for a look, as the tea puddled through, the leaves left behind, and the doctor frowned as Sherlock straightened the cloth, studying the patterns. 

"What is that?" Watson circled around. "It's not a face. Or. Maybe if that's the nose-" 

"We could do over," said the youngest witch, sounding disappointed. "It don't all turn out right. You got to think hard, guv." 

"No. No. That's right." The leaves had fallen into a thick, uneven lattice, wet on the fabric, and it struck Sherlock all of a sudden what the leaves looked like. "I know where he is. We're lucky. He's close by." 

The witches looked at each other, excited and relieved. "Blessings of the House," said the oldest, as Sherlock and Watson hurried for the door, but the youngest just cried, "Kick 'is arse!" 

"Was it a face?" Watson asked breathlessly, as they pelted out into the night, coats flapping. 

"It was a section of the streets," Sherlock corrected, turning a corner sharply, calling up a map of Whitechapel in his mind. "Near Berner Street." 

"Should we whistle for the police?" 

"Not yet. I'm not sure what the spell is pointing us towards, even if it's truly anything at all." Seeing Watson's doubt, Sherlock added irritably, "Also, if I absolutely need to, I have a way to summon my brother. All right?" 

This seemed sufficient. They slowed to a halt a block away from Berner Street, Watson puffing from the effort, and Sherlock looked around sharply. The streets were badly lit in this part of Whitechapel, and even with his better than average night vision, Sherlock was hard pressed to pick things out. He could hear the distant rattle of a hansom cab on its business, and the occasional murmur of voices from within lodging houses and shuttered businesses. Watson's breathing and footsteps seemed overloud, but Sherlock tried to tune that out, thinking, concentrating. They walked slowly around the block, peering vainly into the dark. 

It was Watson who first saw it - his hand gripped Sherlock's tightly at the elbow, and he pointed. Heading into Dutfield's Yard was a man of middling height, a woman listing and drunken against his arm. Watson had drawn his gun, but Sherlock held up his hand, and they hurried closer. They were spotted at twenty paces - the man's head snapped up, and Sherlock got a brief glimpse of brilliantly hard eyes and a broad smile, brittle with madness, under the man's bowler hat, then the man drew a hand sharply across the woman's neck. 

Watson swore, firing the gun in a sharp double tap, wrist braced, the sound of the shots ringingly loud, but he missed in the dark: the man pelted away. Sherlock grabbed the gun from Watson and took off, hoping that Watson would see to the victim, and as he chased the fleeing killer, he murmured the first syllable of Mycroft's True Name under his breath. 

In an instant, Mycroft stepped out of the air beside him, looking startled for a moment before he quickly assessed the situation and understood. Sherlock heard a snatch of a kōan behind him, and ahead, the killer bounced off an invisible wall as he rounded a corner, going sprawling. The killer was _laughing_ , joyous, brittle and loud, as he scrambled up to his feet, and then, to Sherlock's irritation, the killer himself spoke a kōan out loud, and stepped through the air, disappearing. 

Sherlock slowed to a halt, palms on his knees, gasping for breath. Then he decocked the gun and straightened up, glumly, as Mycroft jogged over to his side. "Why didn't you just kill him?" Sherlock asked flatly. "He's a murderer at least four times over! And he's a mage - the damage he'll do-" 

"I wanted to capture him alive. I thought that we needed him yet. While our mother yet lives." Mycroft had continued walking, out to the street corner where he had knocked the killer over, a globe of pale blue light spinning to life over his shoulder, then he hummed to himself and took a handkerchief from his pocket, bending to pick something up from the street. It was a syringe, half-full of some sort of translucent liquid. "But perhaps here is a solution regardless. Good work," Mycroft told Sherlock, but before Sherlock could protest, Mycroft had stepped forward and vanished. 

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, gritting his teeth, then he pocketed the gun and jogged back over to Watson, who was kneeling glumly next to the body, hands soaked with blood, his efforts to staunch the bleeding with a rag clearly failing. A bobby hovered over them anxiously, frowning with suspicion as Sherlock got close, but Sherlock ignored him, scowling. "He got away." 

"Damn it all!" Watson swore, and in the light of the bobby's lamp his cheeks were wet with tears. The woman had bled out on in the yard and gone cold by the time Inspector Lestrade showed up to extricate them from possibly being arrested on suspicion of murder, his face grim. 

"There was another murder." 

"What?" Sherlock blinked. "But we chased... Ah. Where was the other one? When?" 

"Mitre Square." Lestrade gestured wearily at the body behind him. "You must've scared him out of Whitechapel, but he still wanted to get someone. Bully for the other vic." 

Sherlock glared at the ground. Another failure. Two failures. "Damn the light," Watson said hotly. "If only I got him. I was so sure that I did." 

"Lestrade. Give me your lamp." Sherlock grabbed the lantern from Lestrade without waiting for an answer, and swept it along the wall opposite Dutfield's Yard. He found what he was looking for after a few minutes, and pointed at a gouge in the wall. Lestrade borrowed a small knife, and dug out an iron-tipped bullet. 

Watson looked absolutely bewildered. "But... the bullet-" 

"It glanced off a shield. Look at that trajectory." Sherlock was smiling to himself, sharply, despite everything, despite the threat of his mother's death. Better and better. 

"I thought iron... counters magic?" Watson protested. "Wasn't that the point of the iron bullet?" 

"Not all magic. Not the sort from pre-iron cultures. Curious. Very curious. Most mages are attuned to the lingua franca of their birth, or some aspect of their blood. For a mage to use magic, ancient magic... how could that be?" 

Watson's face wrinkled up into a frown, but surprisingly, it was Lestrade who answered. "It's another linguist." 

"That's right." Sherlock patted Lestrade on the shoulder, ignoring his flinch at Sherlock's grimy hand. "Very good, Inspector. Daily exposure to my brother, may I say, seems to have done wonders for your intellect. Consider that some small comfort. No doubt his presence is a constant torture." 

"He ain't so bad," Lestrade said quietly. 

"A linguist? What does that mean?" Watson asked helplessly. 

"It means," Sherlock smiled thinly, "That life for my brother just got far more interesting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Head to the next~~~


	7. Chapter 7

iv.

Greg hadn't realized that he had enjoyed seeing Mycroft almost every night until it stopped. After the murders of Stride and Eddowes, their nightly incursions into the hedge-mage underbelly of London had abruptly ceased: no more invitations to the Diogenes Club, no black carriages idling outside Scotland Yard. 'Investigating' with Mycroft Holmes had been... interesting. The man exuded power, and his very presence was electric: Greg felt helplessly drawn towards him, and the first time Greg had seen Mycroft use magic in one of their forays, he had felt an uncomfortable stir of desire in his blood. It had been a simple thing, spinning a ball of light that bobbed over Mycroft's shoulder, and thankfully, Mycroft's attention had been occupied with scrawled graffiti in back of the Whitechapel public house they were visiting.

It was strange. Greg had never been attracted to men before. He knew of the vice, of course - one did not spend decades in the police without getting wind of every vice known to man - but when he had first looked upon Mycroft with want it had surprised him rather than disgusted him. Mycroft, after all, was not a conventionally handsome man. And it was not the magic, not entirely: Greg was starting to feel a helpless sort of eager pleasure whenever Mycroft ordered him around with his imperious presumptuousness. Even if Greg sometimes pushed back, just to remind Mycroft that Greg was not one of his minions, there was also a certain sort of smug pleasure to watching Mycroft frown irritably at him, to being the temporary focus of all that prickly attention. 

He had spent four days toiling through paperwork and personally attending the interviews of some of the more promising persons of interest, looking out hopefully for a black carriage after work but always going home to his small flat, disappointed. He called on Baker Street once, but Sherlock was out and apparently had been out for three days, and Watson was worn and apologetic. The papers had ramped up their coverage of the murders since the publishing of the so-called 'Jack the Ripper' letters, and the nation was gripped in a fervor of morbid interest and fear. Although they'd put out a description based on Watson's recollections, that hadn't come to any good end either. 

"The cabbie that dropped me off at Whitechapel recognised me," Watson had told Greg glumly. "Thank God for those damnable letters. That cabbie's interview with the Times made it into the paper but it wasn't anywhere prominent." 

"It was a good interview," Greg had said doubtfully. "The cabbie was of the opinion that you scared the killer off mutilating Stride." 

"She still died," Watson had said grimly. "Damn it all, Inspector. She _died under my hands_." 

There hadn't been anything that Greg could say to that. So he had avoided Baker Street and worked long hours and on the fifth day he had trudged home, scrubbing at his eyes. He felt exhausted yet hyper alert at the same time, and stumbled up the narrow stairs to his cold flat mostly by habit. Frozen fingers fumbled the key, but after a few curses Greg managed to open the door, and he slunk in and closed it behind him, only to stumble heavily back against the door with a yelp. 

Mycroft Holmes was standing before the narrow window that looked out towards a slice of the street, mostly blocked by the neighboring building. He didn't turn to look at Greg, his hands crossed behind his back, dressed in a crisp gray suit with a pale cream scarf. "Christ," Greg said, rubbing a palm over his face, then slotting his key back into his pocket. "You really ought to drop this habit of yours. Breaking and entering." 

When Mycroft didn't say anything, Greg sighed, and pottered over to the locked cabinet against the wall closest to his bedroom. "Want a drink? I might have a whisky around here somewhere. You could've put the fire on, if you were going to wait." 

"Ah. Forgive my oversight," Mycroft said drily, and murmured something under his breath. The firewood in his hearth burst into flame, and Greg froze for a moment before he shook his head and fiddled with the cabinet, hoping to hide the climbing flush in his cheeks. 

"So what d'you want to talk about today?" Greg asked, with false bravado. "Your brother's still missing and-" 

"What _do_ I want to talk about today?" Mycroft interrupted, and his hand curled against the cabinet, bracketing Greg in; he was standing suddenly too close, his eyes intense and dark. There was a wiry, predatory tension to Mycroft today, a harshness to his voice, and Greg's voice caught and died into a stuttered gasp as his hip hit the cabinet in shock. Mycroft merely crowded him in further, pressing him against the glass and wood. "Don't think that I haven't noticed." 

"Noticed what?" Greg said breathlessly. 

Mycroft smiled, and he flicked his eyes briefly down to Greg's mouth, then back up. When he spoke again, his voice was like velvet. "Do you need me to make it an order?" 

God. It was all Greg could do to bite down on a groan. He leaned forward, awkwardly, forgetting for a moment that he was a _police officer_ , that this was illegal. He felt rather than heard a sigh shudder through Mycroft, then he was being pinned to the cabinet, a gloved hand clenching around the back of his neck, and this kiss was nothing like what he had ever exchanged with his wife, even when they had been younger and fonder of each other. Mycroft kissed as though he perfectly intended to devour Greg at the end of it, his teeth catching on Greg's lip and his tongue demanding as he pressed it into Greg's mouth, ginger beard deliciously bristly against Greg's jaw. Blindly, Greg pressed his stiffening cock against Mycroft's hips and heard a gasp torn out between them, then a hand pressed up against the small of his back and Greg heard Mycroft say a snatch of something in a language he couldn't quite pick out. 

"What-" Greg began, then he yelped as Mycroft dragged him forward, the world abruptly tilting around him, distorting: one moment he was in his small flat and the next he was in a huge bedchamber, warm and lit by a roaring fire in the hearth, five times the size of his entire flat. He blinked, gawking at the furnishings, the gold-framed paintings of strange beasts that lined the walls, interspersed with rich creamy drapes, the huge bookcase that took up the wall before him, interrupted only by a double door in oak, closed. There was a writing desk, neatly arranged, by a window, a dresser and a large, ornate wardrobe, and intricate Persian rugs over thick walnut carpeting. And beside him was a monster of a four poster bed, upon it a tapestry of odd symbols that seemed to make no sense, silver brocade picked out on black. 

"Mycroft," Greg protested, wide-eyed - matters were accelerating far more quickly than they should, he hadn't ever even kissed a man before tonight; but Mycroft growled instead and shoved him up against one of the posts and kissed him again, gloved hands pressed to Greg's cheeks. 

"Tell me you don't want this," Mycroft hissed, and mouthed at Greg's jaw, teeth catching briefly over day-old stubble and making Greg whine and jerk in his grip. "Tell me to stop." His voice was venomous, almost snarling as he scraped his teeth down the pulse at Greg's neck. There was a madness to his touch, Greg thought dimly, a wildness to it as he scrabbled at Greg's coat, one button going spinning across the floor, lost on the rugs, until Greg unfroze enough to help him, shrugging off his coat, then his jacket and waistcoat. "Come on, Inspector," Mycroft growled, yanking Greg's shirt out of his trousers and then shoving his hands under it, the gloves deliciously smooth over his back. 

"Oh God, my God," Greg whimpered, arching into Mycroft's touch, and Mycroft's eyes seem to glitter black. All of a sudden Greg felt a strange, heightening warmth, as Mycroft kissed him again, like the touch of a summer sun, just on the very edge of being uncomfortable; he puzzled it over, dazed, then it struck him. What Mycroft was blanketing him in was pure magic, sweating off Mycroft in waves, like the prickly humidity before a storm, and Heaven but it was a turn on like nothing Greg had ever felt before. 

It seemed to snap Greg out of the very last of his doubts - he sidestepped, heard Mycroft let out a startled yelp as he overbalanced, and Greg used the momentum to twist them around, shoving Mycroft down on the bed and the ridiculous tapestry. Greg clambered on top before Mycroft could react, though he did take a split second to admire the look of surprise on Mycroft's face, then he grinned and grabbed hold of Mycroft's beautifully tailored lapels and kissed him hard on the mouth. 

Shoes were kicked off, desperately, then Greg was fiddling awkwardly with the buttons of Mycroft's waistcoat when Mycroft snarled, "None of that, don't, just-" and somehow managed to navigate their belt buckles and the buttons on their trousers, then hissing with impatience as he got to the drawstrings on their pants. Greg started to laugh breathlessly halfway through it: it was either laugh or go mad and when Mycroft glared angrily at him he laughed harder, pressed the joyous rumbling wave of it against Mycroft's chest and buried his mouth in the pale line of Mycroft's neck. 

"What?" Mycroft snapped, indignant, and Greg managed to swallow his mirth just enough to gasp, "Why don't you magic it away? All of it?" 

"I don't trust my control right now," Mycroft hissed, and glowered as this merely made Greg laugh all over again, "You _intolerably_ handsome man-" 

" _Me_?" Greg interjected, incredulous, and got shoved on his back, nearly teetering off the side: Mycroft had gotten their cocks out, spitting in his elegant, beautiful palm, and then it was glorious, rubbing one out against another man, against _Mycroft_ , untouchable, dignified, impossibly powerful Mycroft, who had his teeth sunk into Greg's neck and his back arched like a bow under Greg's feverishly roaming hands. 

Greg got his heels on the bed and shoved up and his cock rubbed against the fine, expensive wool of Mycroft's waistcoat, leaving a slick stain, but Mycroft ignored it, growling even when Greg froze, and then his hand clenched near painfully tight and Greg was choking out an apology even as he found himself coming harder than he ever had before. Mycroft hissed, then gasped, "Gregory, my _God_ -" and thrust up into the mess, chasing his own orgasm, a strangled sound frozen between them as Greg leaned up to kiss him, sloppy and just as filthy; he felt Mycroft tense up, shaking, and then he was grinning as he slumped back against the bed, deliciously sated. 

Mycroft, however, sat up abruptly, flushed, frowning, and then he swallowed hard and muttered a verse in a strange, sing-song voice, gesturing. The wet seed on Greg's belly disappeared, his clothes even growing crisp, and Greg blinked for a moment in surprise. "So a mage is handy to have in the bedroom," Greg noted, breathless still. 

Instead of smiling in return, however, Mycroft only stared at him as he hastily straightened his clothes. "Gregory, I... what came over me-" 

"Oh, come _on_ ," Gregory felt some of his brilliant joy fading. "You jumped us across to... I don't even know where this is... and. I enjoyed it. Seems like you did too." 

"You're a _police officer_." 

"Yeah. And you can light fires with a thought and step across space and probably steal the moon itself if you wanted to," Gregory frowned. "Are we really going to have this conversation? Right now? Because I'm bloody tired and I'd rather sleep, and if you're going to kick me out at least take me back to my flat." 

"I..." To Greg's surprise, Mycroft started to laugh, himself, a wry, soft chuckle, turning his face away, and encouraged, Greg scrambled up, and dared to pull himself up behind Mycroft, to press an arm around his graceful back. "Inspector. Again you are full of surprises." 

"Says the man who could turn the sun blue with a wave and maybe a few fancy words." Greg tried and failed to stifle a yawn, and this time, Mycroft smiled faintly and allowed himself to be pulled down onto the bed.

4.0.

Mycroft rose early, as was his habit, and was startled and confused for a moment as he registered a warm, snuffling weight against him. He twisted away, blinking, then stared, wide-eyed, as Lestrade merely mumbled something and rolled into the warm spot he had just vacated. Mycroft took in a deep breath, then another, and was torn between staying still just for the sheer novelty of seeing such a handsome man in his bed, or fleeing the scene.

"I can hear you panicking, y'know," Lestrade said, without opening his eyes. When Mycroft didn't say anything, Lestrade rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes. "Bit early yet, innit?" 

"I do _not_ 'panic'," Mycroft said, in distaste, which made Lestrade laugh, oddly enough, and indignation allowed Mycroft to get out of bed to do his daily ablutions. When he returned, properly dressed yet again, Lestrade was fully dressed and was ambling around his bedroom, looking over the books - not that he could likely read a vast majority of them, and finally twitched over one of the drapes. 

"Jesus Christ. Where are we?" 

"It's very hard to explain." Mycroft admitted. His mother's pocket summer sat neither on Earth or in Faerie, but somewhere in between. "My mother made it all," he added absently. "With earth from our family estates in the country." 

"Made... made what all?" 

"This is a pocket world. I'll step you out of it when you're ready to return to London." 

"A pocket _world!_ " Lestrade gaped, staring outside, where morning had just begun to break, then back at Mycroft. 

Mycroft found himself smiling back, amused and gratified on his mother's behalf. "Yes. She was the most powerful practitioner of her generation." 

"Was." Lestrade sobered up. "I'm sorry." 

"She's still alive." Mycroft cut in, his good mood fading. "Barely. That's why I was... in such a state yesterday. It's been a frustrating set of days. I apologize." 

"Well, I don't accept your apology," Lestrade scowled. "I enjoyed it and that's the end of it. You don't want to talk about it anymore, fine. But don't pretend that you didn't want it." 

"I did," Mycroft said, with forced patience. "Very much so. You're a very handsome man. But this is ill-advised. For the both of us." 

"You people," Lestrade said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Rich nobs. Think you can just do what you like and then wave a hand and sweep the whole soddin' mess away. Right then. Get me back to London." 

"Inspector," Mycroft began, but when Lestrade's lip curled, he corrected himself. "Gregory. I... well. I would rather not leave matters badly between us." 

"Well," Lestrade snapped, "That's not exactly my fault, is it?" 

"I..." Mycroft sucked in a slow breath. And that was the crux of the matter. This had not been Lestrade's fault, but Mycroft's. And he had acted shamefully. "All right," Mycroft said carefully. "Can we start over?" 

"From when? Before I knew you were some sort of modern Merlin? I can pretend to be shocked all over again, sure." 

Despite himself, Mycroft's lip quirked. Lestrade was really something. Someone different. And there it was. Mycroft had never met anyone quite like Lestrade, anyone who quickened his blood so, who could make him laugh, whom he could not quite always predict. Mycroft had been given a gift last night, and he had spat on it. "From this morning," Mycroft said, and leaned over, to give Lestrade a tentative, chaste peck on the cheek. When he pulled back, Lestrade was frowning at him, but at least some of his exasperation seemed to have faded. "Good morning." 

"Same to you." Lestrade said warily. 

"Would you like to have some breakfast?" Mycroft added. 

Lestrade stared at him with some surprise. The Inspector didn't usually have the occasion or the coin to have a hearty breakfast, Mycroft knew. He dressed well, but he was careful about his savings: he had to pay his ex-wife an upkeep, and he was strategic about his comforts. Hunger warred with pride and hunger won out. "I'll be glad to, if it isn't any trouble." 

"Not in the least." Mycroft held out a hand, and when Lestrade grasped it, he spoke a kōan of space, and took them to the garden terrace, where breakfast was being served in a large spread, facing the sprawling grounds of the eternal summer. 

Sherlock looked up sharply from a plate of kippers and toast, and blinked rapidly when he recognised Lestrade, even as the Inspector stared at him, open-mouthed. " _Inspector_?" 

"What the blazes are you doing here?" Lestrade sputtered. 

"This is my mother's house," Sherlock frowned at him. "What are _you_ doing here... oh. Oh no. You didn't." He transferred his glare to Mycroft. "Really, Mycroft?" 

"Good morning to you too, Sherlock," Mycroft said urbanely, and pulled out a chair for Lestrade, sitting beside him, placing himself between the Inspector and Sherlock with two chairs to his right to spare. 

Lestrade blushed, but didn't stammer an excuse or back down, instead saying, "You could at least tell Watson where you were going. He's been worried." 

"He's always worried," Sherlock said dismissively, still glaring at his brother. Mycroft stared back, evenly, and finally it was Sherlock who scowled and glanced back at his toast. 

A scraping sound called Mycroft's attention back to Lestrade - the Inspector was guiltily helping himself to large portions of eggs, pastries and kippers. He hesitated when he realized Mycroft was watching, and said, "Um. Bit hungry." 

"Eat whatever you like," Mycroft said, and kissed Lestrade on the temple, smirking when he heard Sherlock's yelp of horror beside him. The morning was looking up after all.


	8. Chapter 8

V.

John gaped, open-mouthed, as he stepped out into the summer heat. He turned around in a slow, awed circle, breathing deep, the crisp freshness of the air, so sudden out of London, the loamy, earthy fragrance of the land. Beside him, Sherlock was briskly shedding his coat, hanging it on a branch, though he didn't relinquish his hat.

"Well?" Sherlock asked impatiently, and John obliged, if jerkily, removing coat and hat and hanging it on a branch of the large tree. Most of the branches held coats, some rather foreign in nature - one looked distinctly Oriental, thick with gold brocade and fur, while another seemed to be stitched together out of large pieces of crocodile skin. 

"What is this place?" John clutched his doctor's bag to himself protectively. 

"Mother's house. Told you already. Do keep up, Watson." 

"When... when you said you wanted me to have a look at your mother and brought me to Mayfair I thought-" 

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said impatiently, already hurrying over the grass towards the sprawling villa beyond, and John had to jog to keep at his heels. To his left, a large garden maze seemed to have suffered grievous harm: a huge furrow had ploughed through it, ending in a strange blackened heap on the grass. 

"Who _is_ your mother?" John asked shakily. "I mean. Your brother seems extremely well connected in the government. Is your mother the... the Queen of the Mages or something?" 

"Close. Nearly the same thing. Only for England though." Sherlock frowned at John again, "Stop gawping. I gave you an answer. What's the problem?" 

"It's just very hard to take in all at once," John said faintly. 

Sherlock shot him a strained, wide-eyed look over his shoulder, then he looked away. "My mother's name is Victoria. Victoria Holmes. She wanted to meet you. Probably. In better circumstances." 

Remembering the stakes, John set his jaw, and shoved away his confusion and disorientation. "Lead on," he said firmly, and got a grateful nod in return. 

He hurried to the sprawling porch of the villa behind Sherlock, where a butler stood at the doorway, staring disapprovingly at the both of them, but he stood aside to let them through, into an exquisite foyer with an impressively intricate mural of a foxhunt. They went up the curved stair and jogged through a long corridor, passing any number of sumptuous rooms that John didn't have the time to gawk at, until they came to the room at the end, the doors made of what looked like solid rose gold, gleaming, mirrors that reflected them both. 

Sherlock pushed through, and they came out into a room that was more like a... greenhouse, of sorts. Vines and sweet-smelling flowers wreathed the walls, growing between shelves that held books and porcelain pots and little statuettes of fantastical creatures, and eventually arched up and over to form the four posts of a bed. The room was crowded with people, at least eight that John could see, men and women, who eyed them both in surprise: there were five men, most of them dressed in shirts and waistcoats of varying quality, three European, one nut-brown and bald, one bronze-skinned, with two fingers of black paint on his cheeks. There was one woman in a bright red summer frock, all golden hair, Russian, perhaps, and a woman with jet dark skin and a mass of brown curls in a white robe, and finally, a tiny Oriental lady, the oldest in the room, her hair bound behind her head, dressed in ornate flowing black robes with brocaded sleeves, bound with a brilliant red sash under her breasts to a large knot at her back. Sherlock pushed through, over to the side of the bed, where Mycroft stood, beside a woman who lay on the bed. 

Victoria Holmes had once been handsome, but whatever was within her had sapped her: her cheeks looked hollow and gaunt, her eyes closed within great pits, her hair falling out in clumps over the pillows. Her hands were thin claws over the bed, and the air around her shimmered, looking strangely oily. She was dressed, rather incongruously, in what looked like riding gear, pulled open over her belly. 

Mycroft swept John with a little frown, then he waved him to the bed. "Sedatives," he said curtly. "As much as would be safe for her." 

"I-" 

"Can you do this, or not?" Mycroft demanded impatiently. "Sherlock insisted on your presence." 

John shot Sherlock a glance - Sherlock returned a grimace in return, and looked away. Taking in a deep breath, John set his medicine bag on the bed and reached for laudanum and a syringe. "Now?" 

"When I tell you. Get ready." 

Mycroft put his hands palm up, facing the frail woman on the bed, and then he began to speak a strange, staccato verse - it sounded like English, but not quite, the consonants slurred and strange, and above the woman, the shimmering air started to waver and twist. Behind John, one of the men began to chant, in a repetitive, hoarse tone, Gaelic, perhaps, and his voice was joined by the others in the room, all speaking verses, all in their own rhythm, all different languages. 

"Now," Mycroft said sharply, and John administered the laudanum. His hands felt for a moment like they were being pushed through treacle, then the resistance was gone, and Victoria sighed, low and rasping. 

On Victoria's belly, a lump surfaced, _moving_ , like a rolling ball, but then the voice of the Oriental lady in the room rose to a shout, and it abruptly stopped. Mycroft motioned her forward, and John stared, blinking, as she sank large, thin needles into spots on Victoria's belly and arms, then her legs. 

"Keep her from biting her tongue and hold her shoulders down," Mycroft instructed, and Sherlock was there, his hands pressed down on his mother's shoulders, pale and drawn, while John got the mouth guard from his bag and hastily fit it in. 

Mycroft had a syringe in his hand, with translucent fluid within it. As the chanting grew louder in the room, he bent over Victoria's body, and injected whatever it was into the lump. 

Beside John, Victoria let out a whimper, and then her eyes snapped open and she screamed, starting to thrash with inhuman strength - Sherlock was tossed aside as though he was no more than a rag doll. Behind Mycroft, a dark-skinned woman spoke a snatch of song in a sonorous voice, and Victoria was abruptly pinned back down on the bed with forces that John could not see. Mycroft had tossed the syringe aside, and had drawn from his sleeve what looked like an iron dagger, crude and jagged. 

"Oh. Oh no." John gaped. "No!" Mycroft glared at him, furious, and John hastily added, "If you're going to have to cut... to operate, then _I'm_ going to do it. Unless you have a medical degree?" 

Mycroft hesitated only a moment. "Fine," he snapped, and handed the dagger over, hilt first. "It's been sterilised." 

John made the first incision, trying not to think about the way the skin rippled unnaturally under his hands, over the hoarse screams from his 'patient'. Sherlock stared at him from across the bed, his eyes fever bright. The stench hit him first, like overripe fruit, and then he made a second incision and started to peel back the flesh and _something_ heaved _out_ , fist-sized, something black and fleshy and born of nightmares, twisting and clawing at itself with tiny vestigial limbs. John moved without thinking - he rammed the iron blade into the back of the thing, then he flinched as it started to swell up, like an expanding balloon - Mycroft spoke a desperate string of garbled words - and then the thing burst, splashing out into a sphere. Gritting his teeth, Mycroft switched to what sounded like Hebrew, gesturing at the sphere, and within it, the black fluid abruptly started to burn with an incandescent heat, confined. 

Forcing himself to ignore it, John prepared needle and thread, even as Sherlock knelt by Victoria's head, whispering to her, keeping her awake. 

"Hey!" John objected, as the Oriental lady sprinkled some strange white powder into the open wound, but she smiled at him, then sang out a strange staccato string of words and pressed her hand on the bloody incision. When she raised her palm again, the incisions were gone - no scars remained. 

John stared, dumbly, as the needles were removed. Of the thing that had been on the bed, only blackened ash and the iron dagger remained, and dreading the worst, he checked Victoria's pulse. "Steady," he said, marveling. "Just a little weak. That was incredible," he told the Oriental lady, who smiled politely at him, clearly uncomprehending. 

Mycroft spoke quietly to her for a moment, then he looked back at John. "Misono-san says that Victoria will need rest. After that. Time will tell." 

"Right, Holmes," said the man who had been standing behind John, dark haired and swarthy, likely from across the Continent. "'Bout time you gave us a better explanation, eh?" 

"You've had your explanations," Mycroft said tensely, "But I thank all of you for responding to my request for aid. Though in fact I actually only did require Misono-san's skills." 

"Dragons got to help other Dragons," said the man with face paint, if in a curiously lilting tone. "But more importantly. Eight of us have to appoint a new Dragon, when there's a spot open." 

Mycroft's jaw set. "Victoria Holmes is _not_ dead." 

"Neither is she up and about," said the Russian woman, her voice thickly accented. "And England has a linguist-killer, no? Leadership is needed now. You've waited long enough. The other Dragons agree. More or less." 

Mycroft glared at them all, hands clenching and unclenching, then he flinched when, behind him by the bed, Sherlock said quietly, "It's the logical step forward. Don't you think?" 

Helplessly, Mycroft looked between his mother and the other mages in the room, then finally, he nodded, though there was a flicker of pain in his eyes, to the tense set of his jaw.

c.

Sherlock found Mycroft in the remnants of the maze, late into the evening after supper. His brother stood by the stone cupid, smashed into fragments by the _krigor_ that had been birthed by Emers. Mycroft's hands were clasped behind his back, and his jaw was still clenched, staring at the ruined hedges.

"She's sleeping," Sherlock offered. "Watson is with her." 

Mycroft nodded slightly. 

"I'm going back to London," Sherlock added. "Work to be done." Another nod. Sherlock bit down on a sigh, already bored: he had only come out to speak to Mycroft because Watson had insisted. 

He started to turn away, when Mycroft said quietly, "I never wanted to be the Dragon of England." 

Sherlock assessed Mycroft out of habit. Hard jaw, haunted eyes, white-knuckled. Same set of clothes as from the morning. Uneven collar line. Reddened eyes. "Yes. I see that." 

"If... when Mother gets better-" 

"You can't give it back," Sherlock cut in. "And besides. You're well-suited to it. So do your job. It was going to come to you anyway, and she never liked doing it." 

"Was it so inevitable?" 

Sherlock let out a sharp bark. "You're far more magically talented than Mother is. She's said so herself." 

"That's never been the overriding criteria." 

"You've also forged a death grip on the general government and you have an army of flunkies willing to do your bidding, Gifted and UnGifted. You've cultivated ties with the other Dragons and with other notables everywhere. What else did they need?" Sherlock added impatiently. "Guilt, Mycroft? Sentiment? How unlike you." 

He regretted his biting tone a fraction, when Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock. Did you ever... wish you were born Gifted?" 

"What? No!" The vehemence of Sherlock's answer startled Mycroft out of his fugue: Mycroft turned, glancing at him with surprise. "Give me logic, give me science. All this..." Sherlock flapped his hands in a vague imitation of arcanic gestures, "Makes no sense to me and gives me a headache." 

"Ah." Strangely, Mycroft smiled, a wry and small little smile that made Sherlock frown at him in suspicion. "Well then. Call me when you find something. Earlier, this time, if you please." 

" _You're_ the one who let the killer go." 

"Like I said before, I wanted to catch him alive. I didn't realize that he could use kōans - it's rare." Mycroft said soberly. "I needed to see the... tincture used. It was quite ingenious, actually. Faerie blood mixed with _krigor_ essence, distilled and anchored. Enough magic to keep it potent, if dormant. And enough magic to allow it to develop in an UnGifted." 

"But in a Gifted body..." Sherlock trailed off. "That's why Mother didn't die. It wasn't anchored for Gifted flesh. It rejected its geas and rotted. Then you changed the anchor in the tincture you picked up to target another _krigor_. Why else inject it directly?" 

"It took days to change the anchor, and I could not have managed it without Misono-san. She was once my tutor for Oriental spellcraft, which is, as you know, a particularly delicate and subtle type of spellwork. Quite like what was wrought in the original tincture." Mycroft looked away again. "And therein is the problem. Not only is the killer a linguist, he has the wit and the focus to create something that frankly would have been beyond me to imagine. And I still have no idea what it is for. Sheer cruelty? There are easier ways to be cruel." 

"All his non-accidental victims so far have been UnGifted." Sherlock said slowly, thinking it over. "He's experimenting, I believe. Perfecting his tincture. I read Fetter's files. Nichol's _krigor_ was perhaps the size of a draft horse. Emers' was huge, but it was glutted on the magic here. Chapman's was about the size of a thoroughbred. Eddowes'?" 

"Even smaller. Slimmer. And its shape was different. No longer dog-like. More simian." Mycroft was nodding to himself. "But... smaller? What would be the point?" 

"Still as dangerous?" 

"Still as dangerous." Mycroft said soberly. "But usually, when creating monsters? Mages do seem to prefer to go bigger, more teeth." 

It was something to consider, at least. "I may have an idea about that. I'll let you know if it ends up justified." 

"Do you want a portal back to Baker Street?" 

"No. I'll manage. Send Watson back when he's ready to go, will you?" 

"Of course. I've also already arranged for someone to divert his practice at present to another colleague." 

"And," Sherlock braced himself. "About Inspector Lestrade." 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "What about him?" 

"It'll be good for you," Sherlock said mildly, "To have more than one foot in the general world. Living like this?" Sherlock waved a hand to encompass the pocket world. "I don't believe it'll be healthy. Not for you. It wasn't really all that good for Mother, either." 

"No." Mycroft turned away, back to the shattered fountain. "I suppose not." 

221B Baker Street felt empty and dark. Mrs Hudson was out on errands, and Sherlock sat in his armchair, filling his pipe and closing his eyes. Now that the immediate urgency of time seemed to have eased a little, he finally felt that he had the time to sit down and think about the problem. And it would be a four pipe problem, perhaps. He pulled Fetter's neat notes towards him, and opened the folder in his lap. 

It was possibly hours later by the time Watson stumbled into the room, coughing and waving. He headed over to the window, by the sounds of it, opening it - not that the dank London air would have helped very much. "Good gracious, Holmes. You could have asphyxiated!" 

"Hm," Sherlock kept his eyes closed. "Occupational hazard." 

"Well, your mother seems to be doing well," Watson added, a scraping sound indicating that he had put his doctor's bag down. "She'll just need a bit of rest and quiet. I've given her some medication as well as a laudanum prescription for any lingering pain. That Oriental lady worked a miracle. Either that or the... whatever it was... didn't do as much damage as it should." 

"It wasn't meant for a Gifted." 

"Whatever it was meant for," Watson said soberly, "I'm glad that Mrs Holmes is doing fine. She roused enough today to make me promise to come back for tea, at some later date. I took that for a good sign." 

"Maybe. She's stubborn as they come." 

"I suppose there has to be a family resemblance somewhere," Watson said wryly. "Mrs Hudson is wondering if you would like supper. She didn't want to disturb you." 

"Supper? Boring." 

"Boring or not, it's what you're eating," Watson decided, and nagged until Sherlock deigned to at least have some of the cold meats that Mrs Hudson brought up for them. 

The doctor retired early, unable to hide his weariness, and Sherlock stared out of the open window and knocked out his pipe. Something about the case was eluding him, and tobacco hadn't helped. London was trying to tell him more about the case, but Sherlock had not been listening - not the right way, perhaps. So decided, Sherlock reached for the changer's charm in his waistcoat pocket, and became a grizzled old sailor, rheumy-eyed and whiskery, clothes patched and stinking of salt and sweat. Then he pushed up from the armchair and headed out on quiet feet.


	9. Chapter 9

v.

Greg had fallen asleep at his desk on a pile of transcribed witness statements - not an uncommon occurrence in Scotland Yard of late, now that almost everyone was pulling a double shift. The ignited media interest in the murders meant a heightened police effort to catch 'Jack the Ripper', and that meant three other Inspectors as well as the Chief Inspector assigned to the case. He had tried to review all the elevated tip offs, statements and inquests today, trying to work like Sherlock, trying to see some sort of pattern, but the process had simply made him depressed.

The sound of a cleared throat woke him up - Greg startled awake, cheek unsticking from the folders, blinking wildly, then nearly falling off his chair as he recognised Mycroft leaning against it, his back and flank faced to Greg, leafing through one of the statements. "Jesus! You could've woken me." Belatedly, Greg lowered his voice, looking around quickly, but the night shift was on, and the desks near his were empty. "The hell are you doing here?" 

"Checking in," Mycroft said idly, as though he wasn't blithely out of place, in his beautiful clothes, with that bloody umbrella on his arm. As Greg stared, blinking owlishly, a sergeant strode past, but although the sergeant nodded at Greg in passing politely, his eyes seemed to pass right past Mycroft. 

"All right," Greg whispered. "Invisibility spell? Really? You could'a just gotten these papers however you liked, I bet. I mean. You got the muscle to lock down on a bloody _murder_." 

"I wasn't checking in on _that_ ," Mycroft said patiently. There was something wound tight about Mycroft, Greg realized slowly, like a man pulled slowly and inexorably in different directions, prone to snap. 

"You all right?" Greg rubbed at his eyes. "Something up? Is it your brother?" 

"No." Mycroft wavered, then he frowned to himself and set the file down on the desk. "Come to supper with me." Greg blinked at him, the words not quite registering, and Mycroft misunderstood, adding, behind gritted teeth, "Please." 

"I, uh, sure. Let me get my coat." 

No one gave them a second glance as they made their way out of the precinct. Greg found himself grinning once they were out on the street, walking towards the black carriage idling outside, with its sleek black horses, and Mycroft arched an eyebrow at him in a silent question. 

"Is something amusing, Inspector?" 

"Surely you can call me 'Greg' in private," Greg dared to suggest, as he climbed into the carriage after Mycroft, sitting opposite him on smooth leather. 

"Gregory," Mycroft amended, which Greg supposed was probably far enough: Mycroft's lip curled as he said it, but in the dank illumination from the street light Greg could not see whether he was displeased. 

"Wasn't laughing at you," Greg conceded, as the carriage jolted to a start. "It's just. We've been doing the rounds for a bit, and all that, but. Magic." He waggled his fingers, and Mycroft sighed. "No, I meant," Greg added hastily, wishing that he was more coherent, "It's incredible. _You're_ incredible." 

There was a long pause, and in the fleeting light of the street, flicking past whenever the carriage passed a lamp post, Mycroft's face looked frozen. Greg started to flush, certain that his ears were burning, glad for the dark. Then Mycroft glanced away, out of the window, as though deciding to pretend that Greg hadn't spoken, and Greg felt his confidence deflate. This was the first he had seen of Mycroft since his visit to the pocket world, and perhaps Mycroft had also decided to forget what they had done. 

Well, sod him, Greg decided, a little savagely. If Mycroft thought he could get away with it... Greg was known in the CID for his sheer tenacious stubbornness, and he would not let Mycroft neatly file the incident away as just an unfortunate misadventure. They sat in a uncomfortable silence until the carriage came to a halt, and as it did, Greg summoned up all his courage and recklessness and leaned over to put a hand pointedly high on Mycroft's thigh. Mycroft flinched, gaze snapping from the street to Greg, his eyes wide, and Greg bent over, balancing himself against Mycroft's seat with a palm pressed against the backrest, beside Mycroft's shoulder, until their lips were but barely apart, hot again with embarrassment and want. 

Mycroft made a tiny sound, like a strangled gasp, surrender and anticipation all at once, but as tempting as it was to close in and take a kiss, Greg had other plans. He'd been in the police long enough to know that sometimes the long game was the better game, and to understand both the best and worst of human nature, and so Greg smiled instead. "Thanks," he said, and nervousness had made his voice husky, "For inviting me to supper." 

When Greg pulled back, Mycroft looked frozen again, almost comically so, and Greg took a moment to enjoy his obvious shock before winking and shifting away to get the door. His hand had just closed on the latch when he was grabbed from behind, fingers closing tight on his shoulder and coat, and he heard Mycroft snarl something unintelligible as momentum carried them in a tumble through the door. Greg got a glimpse of the grimy street for a second, automatically trying to twist to roll with the fall, but then he landed with a yelp on the thick pelt of the carpet of Mycroft's bedchamber instead, blinking and utterly disoriented, pinned, cheek pressed to the ground. 

"You," Mycroft growled into Greg's ear, heavy and draped over him, "Are utterly infuriating." 

Greg felt the laugh well up out of him: he could not help it, as it bubbled up, pulled his mouth into a grin, and he choked out, "So supper's off then?" and then he was chuckling, helplessly joyous, even when Mycroft's grip on his shoulder tightened as though in warning, then Mycroft seemed to settle for shoving him on his back and straddling his hips and kissing him, anger and lust both, biting even when Greg managed to wrestle them around, until he was on top and pressed between Mycroft's sleek thighs. 

It was good, Greg decided, kissing a man, odd as the beard still felt, but Mycroft felt so warm under him, those beautiful hands achingly tight on Greg's shoulders, the gasps he made whenever they parted but barely for breath all visceral and sharp-edged and raw. It didn't feel like they were lovers, fresh to lust and learning each other: it felt like they were drowning men desperate for another breath, set to devour one another. Greg could taste blood in his mouth and he wasn't sure if it was his, or Mycroft's, and he was painfully hard in his trousers; dazedly, he tried to reach down to adjust himself, but Mycroft slapped Greg's hand away and glared at him and shoved Greg hard, tumbling him onto his back. 

Greg yelped and tried to sit up but Mycroft glowered at him until he stayed still, propped up on his elbows, Mycroft crouched over him, fingers jerky as they navigated Greg's belt, then waistcoat, the room loud with their quickening breaths. When Mycroft freed Greg's cock, long fingers curling tight around the hard length, Greg made a small abortive sound and tried to hook Mycroft closer, to get at his fine clothes, but Mycroft simply snapped another incomprehensible string of words, and Greg found his wrists pinned to the ground, weighted firm. 

"Mycroft," Greg said breathlessly, as Mycroft leaned down and _surely_ , surely not: Greg could not quite imagine Mycroft deigning to do something like this for anyone, let alone a police inspector pushing middle age. 

Mycroft's gaze snapped up, and there was still something angry there, something wild, softening a fraction when he registered Greg's uncertainty. "Bit late for regrets now, wouldn't you say?" Mycroft said sardonically anyway. 

"I mean I've never - no one's ever - something like that to me..." Greg stammered, for he and his wife had certainly had relations, but had not been particularly adventurous by any means, and comprehension dawned on Mycroft, sweeping away his prickly, defensive temper, leaving instead a sharp-edged smile that was predatory all over again. 

"I have it on the best of authority, Gregory, that you need simply lie back and think of England," Mycroft said, his tone bone-dry, then he bent the rest of the way, free hand braced on the carpet beside Greg's hips, and sucked him into his mouth. Greg let out what was quite possibly a decidedly unmanly squeak as wet, tight heat closed tight over him and was that a - God, Mycroft's _tongue_ \- curled with maddening precision against the sensitive and throbbing vein; his hips twitched up in shocked pleasure, but even as he tried to choke out an apology Mycroft simply took it in, drinking him down, hand snaking up to pin Greg's hips down. 

"Jesus... _Mycroft_ ," Greg breathed, disbelieving, trembling as he watched Mycroft press down, almost to the fat root of his cock, then pull back up with a wicked swirl of his tongue, eyes closed and flushed, lips stretched and spit-slick and so debauched, nothing like the imperious gentleman who had woken Greg up at his desk what felt like an age and forever ago. It was slow, torturous, divine; Mycroft deliberately took his time, ignoring Greg's moans and hands clawing into the carpet, occasionally pulling all the way up just to tongue languidly at the fleshy tip before bobbing all the way back down to suck so roughly and loudly that Greg could hear nothing more in the room but their lust. 

"Let me finish," Greg resorted to begging, when Mycroft pulled back up again, just as Greg had been chasing the brink, and this got him a smouldering, considering stare, like a jungle cat's, Mycroft's eyes dark and mercilessly amused, sodding bastard, "Please, sir, _please_." 

It was the 'sir' that got through, Greg saw: it got a blink and a climbing flush to Mycroft's cheeks, and he pressed his advantage, shameless, desperate now for release. "Just let me, sir, I can't bear it, please, anything, I have to, please-" The last word broke into a whine of protest as Mycroft pulled off altogether, with a wet, slick pop, and licked his lips, God damn him, but Greg was lost now, utterly so. If this was damnation, Greg welcomed it gladly. 

"My dear Gregory," Mycroft drawled, and his voice was broken and hoarse, his breath a cruel tease over the tip of Greg's painfully hard cock, "How could I ever deny you anything?" And he curled his hand tightly over the root, too tightly at first, watching Greg squirm and moan for relief, then Mycroft tugged his hand up, slow and deliberate, watching Greg with those glittering, hard eyes as he whispered, "Now then, show me-" even as he squeezed, and Greg was bucking up into Mycroft's grip, crying out, soiling his waistcoat and Mycroft's palm in the white hot rush of release.

5.0.

"So you're now King of all the Merlins," Lestrade said facetiously over breakfast, as Mycroft finally had the time and circumstance to explain why he had been so busy. Before he could answer, Lestrade sobered. "But your mum's all right now? That's a relief, that is."

"She has her lucid periods," Mycroft said delicately, "But for the most part, she needs her rest." 

"She's not going to be mad, innit? That you took her job?" At Mycroft's blink, Lestrade added dryly, "Me mum used to get right mad when she didn't get what she saw was her due. And. _She_ didn't have the power to make this summer getaway." 

"I think she will be angry," Mycroft thought about it. "And rightfully so. But she is incapacitated, and with another linguist on the loose..." He shrugged. "It's a pity. I think she would have enjoyed revenging herself on him. Without the threat of further bloodshed, I would've been tempted to wait until she had finished her convalescence." 

Lestrade pulled a face. "Yes. Let's... not do that. Your brother and Watson found the killer the last time, though the good doctor was vague about exactly how they got around to doing it." 

"They used the hedge-mages." Mycroft said, with some distaste. He had made his own inquiries, and he wasn't as blind as Sherlock sometimes seemed to think. 

"Well. It worked, innit? Maybe you should try it." Lestrade suggested, then laughed at Mycroft's indignant stare. "Just a thought. Lives at stake, and all that." 

"I have my own ways." Mycroft said stiffly. "You're... handling all this surprisingly well." 

"Which bit? Magic? Summer in London in winter?" 

"Your... relations with me." 

"And that's meant to be the most shocking part of my month, is it?" Lestrade asked, very dryly. Mycroft kept his expression still, refusing to be charmed, and eventually, Lestrade sighed and said, "I've been a copper for over twenty years. I've seen some good, and I've seen a hell of a lot of bad. But what don't hurt anyone isn't evil. Doesn't matter what the law says." 

"Strange attitude from an officer of the law." 

"Could be," Lestrade said with equanimity. "There's enough that's truly evil in the world to get mad over, by my books. Some of it's even legal. 'Sides," Lestrade added, with that lovely, faintly mischievous smirk, "We're not in London right now, are we? Seems to me like what passes as law in this place is probably whatever you decide." 

"You do have a point," Mycroft decided, and bent to take a kiss from Lestrade, buttery and sweet with jam and pastries; he curled Lestrade firmly against him with a hand clasped against Lestrade's hip, and licked into Lestrade's mouth as he moaned. Breakfast forgotten, Mycroft was tempted to take them back up to the bedroom when, at the entryway to the terrace, Reynolds politely cleared his throat. 

"Sir," Reynolds said mildly, as they jerked apart. "My apologies for the interruption. But the Lords and Ladies are here to see you." 

"Ah. Of course." Mycroft dabbed at his mouth, then got up from the table. "Have them wait for me in the drawing room, Reynolds." 

Reynolds bowed and left, and Lestrade took a final regretful bite of his scone, eating quickly, rather like a child hastily mopping up a handful of sweets in expectation of everything being taken away. "Take your time," Mycroft offered. "Reynolds will show you out when you're done." 

"S'all right. I'm done." 

"Or..." Mycroft hesitated. "I think you should come with me. I should introduce you." 

Lestrade shot Mycroft an incredulous stare. "What? To some other nobs? That'll go down well." 

"The 'Lords and Ladies' are not 'nobs'," Mycroft corrected delicately. "They are mage-hunters. Now that I am, as you so quaintly put it, the 'King of all the Merlins', I no longer have the time to find the killer myself." 

"Oh." Lestrade looked suitably impressed as he cleaned up and followed Mycroft out of the garden terrace. "So they'll be... working with me? With the police?" 

"Not as such," Mycroft said dryly. "But it is my hope that Scotland Yard and the Lords and Ladies will manage to refrain from stepping on each others' toes." 

Lestrade's jaw set stubbornly, but he said nothing as Mycroft led them both to the drawing room. Like most of the rooms in Victoria Holmes' summer, the room had a particular, architectural quirk, though since this one was wrought by Victoria and not by one of her occasional students, it was an extravagant display of architectural magic. The room, on first glance, looked like any other English upper class drawing room, with large drape-framed windows opening to the garden, portraits of famous scions of the Holmes and Vernet families over the centuries adorning the wood-panelled walls, armchairs by the marble mantelpiece, and a long antique rosewood table set over a thickly embroidered Persian rug. 

The long wall closest to Mycroft as they entered the room, however, opened out towards a rainforest, the rich, loamy smell of it thick in the air, as well as the chattering shrill of cicadas. Insects were not allowed through the wards carven into the air where the wall should be, visible as brilliant mandalas only in mage sight, but Lestrade yelped, his hand flinching towards his revolver, as a jaguar strode into the room, shaking itself. The spellwork didn't allow it to see anyone in the room, and it ignored Mycroft and Lestrade both as it strode past, circling around and snorting, and by the French windows, one of his guests laughed with delight and ran a hand over the great cat's thick pelt, which it wouldn't feel. 

"Jesus Christ," Lestrade goggled at the wall, but Mycroft ignored him, striding towards his first guest instead to shake her hand, the grip as firm and as bold as any man's. The Lords and Ladies heeded no social pleasantries but their own, after all, and male or female, they were all of a feather. 

"May I present to you all Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard," Mycroft said briskly. "He is part of the so-called 'Ripper' investigation and will be available to assist you if necessary. Inspector, it is my pleasure to introduce to you Sergeant, Anthea and Adder, of the Lords and Ladies." 

Lestrade stared at them, clearly thrown by their obvious pseuds - and their unlikely appearances. Sergeant was a dusky-skinned woman with a thick crown of curly hair, her smile sharp and confident as she shook Mycroft's hand at the window, as brisk and firm as any man. She was dressed boyishly, in a hunting coat, shirt and vest, and riding breeches and boots, a bolt action rifle slung across her back and a revolver holstered at her hip, and there was a fierceness to the set of her face. Anthea nodded at Lestrade politely from where she sat in her armchair near the fireplace, though as was her custom she did not look up from the brass-bound tome that she held in her hands, its pages thick with symbols and scrawls, dressed sensibly in a frock and a hat with a black veil, the glamour that sat on her features preventing even Mycroft from making them out save as vague impressions. And the viciously beautiful Adder smiled lazily at Mycroft, then at Lestrade, all sweet poison and amusement, her dress more like a glove of black lace and corsetry than anything remotely decent, showing off her pale, lavish cleavage, a bull whip hooked to her belt. 

"Pleased," Sergeant said gruffly. Anthea didn't offer an acknowledgement. 

Adder, however, looked Lestrade leisurely up and then, then glanced over at Mycroft. "The Dragon of England seems partial to a bit of rough," she purred, and through the corner of his eyes, Mycroft saw Lestrade stiffen. 

"That's none of your concern," Mycroft said flatly, and Adder laughed. 

"My, my. So defensive. Relax, Dragon," Adder prowled closer, and Mycroft had to fight not to bar her away as she circled over to Lestrade, angling around him. "You have good taste." 

"I don't mean to criticise," Lestrade said mildly, "But if you and uh, Miss Sergeant over there go walking in London as you are, there's going to be trouble. Not my call. Public sensibilities and all that." Adder narrowed her eyes, but Lestrade met her stare evenly, and in the end, she smirked and stepped back, making her way back to the armchairs, hips swaying. 

"Don't worry about us," Sergeant said, and her smile seemed fractionally friendlier. "Now what can you tell us about Jack the Ripper?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Sergeant = Sally Donovan, Adder = Irene Adler


	10. Chapter 10

VI.

Sherlock's hands clenched tightly as orderlies carted out the body under a blood-soaked cloth in a stretcher, heading solemnly out of the tiny single room that the victim had lived in. It seemed smaller than it should, full of police, at least up until Sherlock chased them all out to the poky, dingy corridor. He circled the room, looking slowly around him, and once even under the bed, then out at the open window, bending to peer at the ledge. Beside Watson, at the door, was a lady in a sensible frock and coat whom Lestrade had introduced gruffly as 'Anthea', and try as Watson might, he could not seem to concentrate on her face - whenever he tried automatically to catalogue her features, his eyes would slide right off. None of the other police seemed to even notice her presence, nor did she seem to pay any of them any heed, her eyes fixed to a brass-bound book in her hands.

Finally, Sherlock stepped out into the corridor. "All yours. The evidence may now be destroyed at your leisure." 

This earned Sherlock a few hard glances from the constables, but Lestrade frowned at them and there was no comment. Watson followed Sherlock as he studied the corridor outside, walking slowly back and forth, then Sherlock headed briskly out to the street. "Bit of a mess," Lestrade said grimly, as they huddled out into the gray light of the early afternoon. "Had an order from the Commissioner that no Ripper-style murder scene was to be disturbed until he could come personally to have a look at it. But he'd resigned the night before and hadn't told anyone." 

"Thankfully that meant that I could get a proper firsthand look at the scene," Sherlock said, clearly incurious about police politics and the nuances of public pressure. 

"There was some word about maybe using bloodhounds," Lestrade said doubtfully. 

"Pointless. It's been hours, Whitechapel is rank with scents, and the killer can walk through space." Sherlock said dismissively. "Besides, there were no bloodied tracks on the way out of the room, despite all that fluid everywhere. Clearly, he didn't leave the room conventionally. No sign of a struggle, state of undress, blood spatter pattern from the killing blow... she was insensate, possibly drugged or unconscious, then given the shot in her arm, and then she was killed." 

"He's stepping it up," Lestrade said quietly. "First victim off the streets. There was... more damage done. To the body." 

"Most of the entrails and some of the meat of the belly and torso missing, including breasts and heart," Sherlock agreed crisply, frowning to himself. "I think... Yes. I think I do see. Some inkling of it all, I think. But yes." 

"What?" Lestrade demanded impatiently. "Got a lead?" 

"A few weeks ago a very rare volume of the study of Assyrian poetry was donated as part of a general collection of books, the donation catalogue made available to the universities in the land. Inquiries were invited. To summarise," Sherlock said briskly, "The book was sought out by the University of Oxford, after which it passed through a series of various parties and relocated itself, I do believe, to the collection at Durham University." 

"… So?" Lestrade asked, patience clearly starting to fray. 

"Assyrian... that's... Bronze Age, isn't it?" John made a wild guess. 

"Very good," Sherlock said encouragingly. 

"Sounds like it isn't much," Lestrade said doubtfully. 

"It's not the only volume of the study of Bronze Age societies that has made its way over time, usually through intermediaries, to the collection. I've been tracing inquiries on various fronts." 

"And?" Lestrade frowned. "Not to knock your lead, but universities pick up books and such all the time." 

"I take back what I said about your improving intellect," Sherlock said pityingly. 

Lestrade merely sniffed. "I can't go getting a search warrant for a university just on that kind of lead." 

"I wasn't asking you to get one. I was merely informing you that yes, I do have some sort of lead, and no, I do not need your help." Sherlock shot back caustically. 

"Well, if you are going to investigate, I insist on going with you," John pointed out. 

"The inquest will be scheduled early," Lestrade told them. "If you want to attend, you might want to wait a while." 

"Hooper will have a second look after the official one," Sherlock said dismissively. "Oh, come along, Watson, if you must." 

John glanced at Anthea, and she quietly shuffled a step closer, as though indicating that she too would be following them. Sherlock shot her an irritable stare, then stepped out towards a busier street to hail a cab. Lestrade stared after them indecisively, but then a constable hailed him from the lodging house, and he reluctantly turned away, heading back towards the crime scene. 

"Mycroft's cleanup must be very good," John said, as they piled into the cab. "I didn't see any sign of a fight, and there weren't any other victims." 

Sherlock eyed him pityingly, and opposite them in the cab, Anthea said, without looking up, "That's because there wasn't a fight." 

"So it's loose out there?" John glanced involuntarily out of the window. 

"Quite likely." Anthea said indifferently. 

"Mycroft's people have been about. Obvious from the tracks. But they couldn't find it, so they left. Also obvious. _Krigors_ become substance after emergence. But there were no tracks on the floor outside nor in the window. How did it leave?" 

"With the killer?" 

"With the killer, yes," Sherlock said impatiently. "But why?" 

John shrugged. "Perhaps the killer finally got it right. Whatever he wanted out of it. Maybe he wanted a pet," he said facetiously. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, and when he smiled, it was mirthless. "Watson, sometimes you do have hidden depths." 

John frowned at Sherlock. Years of association still didn't quite allow him to parse Sherlock's maybe-sarcasm, and he gave in, looking towards Anthea instead, failing, and having instead to focus on her book. "So. Ah. You're a... mage?" 

Anthea nodded, turning a page in her book. 

"A friend of Mycroft's?" 

"Dragons do not have friends," Anthea said shortly, and answered John with a series of increasingly curt answers until he gave up on small talk and tried to occupy himself by staring out of the window. She only stirred herself when they got out in front of Whitechapel station. "We are to take the train?" Anthea stared at the entryway with distaste. 

"Durham University would be rather far away by cab," Sherlock said sardonically, even as John paid the cabbie. 

"Hm." Anthea turned several pages in the book, then touched a symbol on the page and murmured something to herself. Then she closed the book with a snap, as the cab pulled back into traffic, and grabbed Sherlock and John by their elbows. 

The world seemed to shift and tilt dizzyingly, and then, rather abruptly, they were standing on a circle of grass in front of a castle, sturdily built, brickwork and limestone. John gawked openly, even as students hurried past them, ignoring their presence, hurrying into the castle, books and notes under their arms. Sherlock's eyes were narrowed, even as Anthea's gaze flicked up and back down. 

"That's incredible," John breathed. "Incredible." 

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said, already impatient, orienting himself as he got his bearings. "We need Cosin's Library... hm, at Palace Green-" Sherlock stepped forward, and then he vanished. 

Anthea's head snapped up, and she leafed hurriedly through her book, even as John staggered over, groping at the air instinctively, then letting his hand drop, looking back at Anthea in confusion. "Did - what just happened?" 

She ignored him, pressing a palm to her book and then curling it into a fist, speaking a strange and tongue-twistingly long word. There was a pause, and a woman abruptly stepped out of the air beside her - a pale-skinned, exquisitely beautiful woman, in a decided state of undress, in a black corset and a lace dress that left nothing to the imagination. Flushing, John shrugged off his coat, and held it towards her, averting his eyes. 

Anthea stared at John in surprise, and then she smirked faintly. "Don't bother." 

"How sweet," said the indecently dressed lady, sounding amused. "Thank you for the sentiment, Doctor Watson. You are indeed a _gentleman_ , a rare breed in this dark world." She took the coat, draping it over her shoulders but not buttoning up, which did not quite help the situation in the least. 

"Madam," John started to protest, but she turned to Anthea, clearly deciding to ignore him. 

"Something came up?" 

"Could say that," Anthea agreed soberly. "Sherlock Holmes tripped a ward. He's been discorporated." 

"Discorporated?" John repeated, in dismay. "Dead?" 

"Transported elsewhere," the lady with his coat corrected, amused, though she started to stalk around the circle of grass, studying the ground. 

"He was headed towards the Palace Green library," John tried to say, but the lady with his coat stopped suddenly, and pointed at a spot on the grass. She pursed her lips, tilting her head, and then Anthea spoke another strange word from her book, and they too, disappeared. 

Alone, John spun in a circle, then he let out a deep and exasperated sigh. Magic. Bloody magic!

vi.

Somehow, despite the hordes of press encamped around the mortuary and beyond, as well as the full attention of Scotland Yard and the commissioner, Mycroft still managed to wrangle a private second inquest, done on the quiet. Hooper smiled brightly at him, still frighteningly good-natured even in this place of death, and she looked upon Sergeant with open curiosity and awe. Sergeant was examining Kelly's body, occasionally using odd brass instruments to take readings that Greg could not fathom. Unlike Sherlock, however, Sergeant was doing this methodically, the way a policeman would, inspecting the body from the toes up, and there was little for Greg to do but stand nervously about and try to figure out what was happening.

"I've never met one before," Hooper whispered to Greg, and he wondered who she was, not for the first time. She didn't look wealthy, not like Mycroft, but what did Greg know? Presumably, people who could bring the dead back could wear whatever they wished. Perhaps he was lucky that Hooper hadn't chosen to dress like the Reaper, in a black hood and white gloves. 

"Met what?" Greg murmured back awkwardly. 

"One of the Lords and Ladies," Hooper gushed, and took Greg's hesitation as confusion. She blushed. "Oh... I'm sorry! I keep forgetting, well. That you're, ah, UnGifted, Inspector. You mightn't have known." 

"Mister Holmes - that is, Mycroft Holmes - said that they're... mage hunters?" 

Hooper pulled a face, even as Sergeant sniffed to herself beside the body. "Oh, I do hope that wasn't precisely the term that he used! It's impolite." 

"Is it?" 

"Well," Hooper frowned reproachfully at Greg, "We don't call you UnGifted policemen 'thief-hunters', do we?" 

Oh. "You're police?" Greg looked back at Sergeant with renewed interest. "Magic police?" 

"If you say so," Sergeant said, dry and amused. "We got similar goals. Except that while your prey might fire back at you with a gun, mine can disrupt reality itself." 

"Are all of you women then?" Greg asked, still blindsided. "Uh. I mean-" 

"Most of us, aye," Sergeant smiled, but there was something unfriendly about her smile. "Not the case with the UnGifted, innit?" 

"No, and it's a damned shame," Greg shrugged. "Women can be just as sharp or sharper than men, and hard as nails as well." 

"Well, blow me over. You're one of them progressives." Sergeant didn't sound entirely impressed however, though she straightened up from the body. "All's fair in love and magic, Inspector. But women do tend to be right better at it. Some say it is because the first two mages in the world were women: Eve and Lilith. Adam was made out of clay; Eve and Lilith out of spells. Still," she added distractedly, turning back to the body again, "Just what I heard." 

"If you believe in that sort of thing," Hooper muttered, and when Greg stared at her, she added defensively, "Psychopomps tend to take the matter of religions and such less seriously." 

"Ah." Greg was beginning to wish that he hadn't insisted on being present in the second inquest. Mycroft had mentioned something about not requiring his presence at it, which meant that Greg at the time had decided, out of a fit of contrariness, to be stubborn about it and put his foot down. The charnel smell in the chilled room was thick and choking: Kelly's body was starting to putrefy, despite the chill. "What do you see?" 

"Dead woman," Sergeant said succinctly. 

"Oh excellent! I couldn't have guessed." 

Sergeant flashed him a smirk that was all gallows humour: it was what convinced Greg at last that she was exactly what Hooper intimated. They walked the same beat. "The _krigor_ all but hollowed her out from the hips up to the heart. Not much blood left in the body neither." 

"The room was splashed with it." 

"Aye, but that be the birthing fluid," Sergeant said distractedly. "It drained her of everything else. Liquefied a lot of the flesh. Like it ate an' ate until there was nowt else to go but out." 

Greg shuddered. "But Mycroft's forces didn't encounter it. Nor did any of her neighbours hear anything. If her landlord hadn't sent someone to check on her for the rent, we might not have found her body until it started to smell." 

"Question is," Sergeant nodded to herself, "Why's he doing this?" 

"Sherlock Holmes-" 

"Sherlock Holmes," Sergeant cut in, with a grimace. "Shouldn't be letting an amateur run around the block, even if he's the brother of the Dragon of England. Bloody disgrace." 

"He's had his successes," Greg said, rather taken aback. He wasn't used to non-Yarders maligning Sherlock. Usually it was the complete opposite - singing Sherlock's praises while maligning Lestrade and the other members of the police, particularly since Watson's stories had gained popular appeal. 

"Aye, with UnGifted criminals," Sergeant said dismissively. "He's nowt had to deal with something like this before. Sticking his nose in like this, it'll end in tears, mark my words. There's a reason why the Gifted handle their own affairs by themselves. Usually," she added, with a pointed glance around them. "The Dragon should've had this done on the quiet." 

"His mother's life was at stake," Greg noted stiffly. 

"I've seen when spells go wrong, when mages go bad," Sergeant shot back evenly. "Involving the UnGifted always makes it go worse. Should've kept it on the quiet. But it's too late now." She sprinkled iron filings on the side of the corpse, noted the pattern in a book, then placed what looked like a small straw dummy of a bird, brightly coloured with red dye, in the open abdomen, and frowned to herself as it turned pink. 

"Sweep six murders under the rug?" 

"Ain't easy but I've seen it done," Sergeant said distractedly, pocketing the dummy. "Dragon got sentimental. It happens. Not just where his mum was concerned. With you, as well. 'Ey," she added, when Lestrade set his jaw, "No offense. All's fair in love and magic, 'member?" 

Hooper was staring at the both of them with rather more curiosity than the situation warranted, and she blushed again when Greg frowned at her. "Want me to... animate the body now?" she asked Sergeant timidly. 

"Nah. We know what happened here, I think. Something ate her slow and came out." 

"Don't you want to see how long he waited before he killed her this time?" Greg asked doubtfully. 

"What's the point? Won't tell me any quicker where the killer is. 'Sides, we got a lead," Sergeant added, "Turns out that you're maybe right about the Dragon's brother. Though I think he got lucky." 

"Lucky? He's found the Ripper? Already?" 

"Nope. But he's gone and tripped some ward, over in Durham. He's gone. The girls are looking high and low for him, and I think the Dragon's bent all the influence he has into finding him too. Bloody chaos." 

"What? When?" 

"Just as of a while back," Sergeant said, looking puzzled. "Before I got here." 

Greg had been the one who had picked up Sergeant from the Diogenes Club, to take her to the second inquest after he had sent Mycroft a telegram inquiring when the second inquest was planned. Come to think of it... Mycroft _had_ originally tried to send him back to the Yard on some excuse, before sending Sergeant and Hooper with him to the mortuary when Greg had insisted on attending the inquest... 

"That bastard," Greg muttered to himself. "He already knew that his brother was missing!" 

"Didn't want yet another UnGifted haring out to Durham," Sergeant said, not unkindly. "Sorry." 

"Why are you here, then?" 

"Because," Sergeant said patiently, "Almost all the murders were done in Whitechapel, and killers like these love their patterns. Sooner or later, he's going to pop back into Whitechapel, just you watch." 

"But Holmes - by then-" 

"Better hope my sisters are hot on the chase then," Sergeant said, and sobered when she recognised Greg's increasing agitation. "Don't you worry, Inspector. At this game, we're the best there is. We'll find Sherlock Holmes."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapter update - to finish it all off :)

d.

Sherlock blinked, disoriented, as he stepped out from the chilly air before Durham castle into the warmth of a large, cluttered chamber. Books in varying languages sat in messy stacks along the walls, all teetering towers, and strange instruments in brass and gold whose purpose Sherlock could not immediately discern were scattered about, some as paperweights, some left discarded on the wood-panelled floor. He could see no windows, the room lit by lamps set at irregular distances over the books, and a huge table dominated the length of the chamber, seemingly carved out of a single gigantic block of obsidian, out of place in a room that looked otherwise like a study made large. A delicate-looking chemical experiment sat on one end of the table, the vials and jars dried and abandoned, beside it a stool left overturned and on its side. The room smelled heavily of camphor and incense and a strange, acidic sourness.

Seated on the edge of the table was the killer, and at his feet, curled over the ground, was the shadow of a tiger. 

The killer smiled, sharp and manic, briefly kicking up his heels. He was a slender, dapper man who looked about Sherlock's age, slim and short, with spiky black hair and a too-wide mouth. His clothes were well-made, as fine as Mycroft's, dove-gray and tapered to fit, though there was something of an afterthought to them, as though they were more costume than necessity. Madness burned brightly in the killer's dark eyes and in the curl of his mouth, and beneath his feet, the ink-dark, blurred make-seem of a tiger's form stirred and let out a coughing, grating sound, its skin briefly rippling from beneath with disturbing lumps and spikes before smoothing out into something that looked vaguely like regular fur. 

A _krigor_. 

Watson had been right after all. 

"You actually are a professor," Sherlock said, noting the position and smudge of the ink stains on the killer's hands, of the worn glossiness to his sleeves, even on such an expensive suit, the calluses of his fingers. "Are you not?" 

"Quite so. I've found it useful, this proximity to Cosin's, over the years." The killer's voice was sing-song, gratingly so. "We meet properly at last, Mister Holmes." 

"I'm afraid that you have the advantage of me." 

"Moriarty," the killer offered. "James Moriarty. _Professor_ , if you like." 

"The author of the _Dynamics of an Asteroid_?" Sherlock recalled, with some surprise. "My good sir. That was a phenomenal exercise in pure mathematics." 

"Quite so," Moriarty said, though his smile widened a fraction. "I'm always pleased to meet an educated man." 

"Is that the reason behind your trap? Were you trying to catch one of the students?" 

"Heavens no. A great number of them are completely hopeless. I should know. The ward set over the Durham grounds is keyed to you. I knew you would eventually trace me here. Or if you didn't... well," Moriarty shrugged. "I would have been... dis-ap- _pointed_." He sang out the syllables of the last word, all grating, maddened cheer. 

"Me?" Sherlock calculated possibilities in his mind as he spoke. He had a revolver with iron-tipped bullets in his coat, something that Watson had nagged him into carrying despite its obvious uselessness against Moriarty in the alley. He was glad for it now. Perhaps Moriarty wouldn't have his shield up. Perhaps he would. "If you wanted to meet me, you could have called on Baker Street." 

"I was tempted to," Moriarty admitted. "But no. This is better. I need, you see, a final piece of the puzzle, to finish off my new familiar. And I think that you'll do nicely." 

"A brain," Sherlock deduced, trying not to stare at the _krigor_. 

"A brain," Moriarty agreed. "But not just any brain. One that is suitable. You see," he added, with another manic grin, "It's lonely at the top. Some criminal enterprises here, some mathematical treatises there... but no suitable companion at all about. I suppose if I were UnGifted I would have picked some muscle off the street, some discharged soldier, perhaps. But it's tiresome dealing with most of the UnGifted when you're not one of them." 

"Do tell," Sherlock said warily. "Why inject UnGifted, then?" 

"UnGifted have a stronger sense of bimorphic self," Moriarty said blithely. "When your brain's not touched by magic, your body's inflexible enough to be properly shaped. However," Moriarty explained, tilting his head, "I could not quite get it to work on non-addicts. Strange little quirk to the formulae. Addiction - to drugs, or to alcohol - allowed the byline anchor to traverse function." 

"You wrote a morphic code into the tincture," Sherlock concluded. "You wanted something of smaller mass, around the size of a man. You want to make a golem." 

"Not bad for one of the UnGifted," Moriarty decided, his smile growing sly, "I looked into your background, you know. I could never quite understand why you cut yourself off from the greater world. Surely the mortal world - the UnGifted world - is far too boring for a man of your intellect. With your bloodline, you could have enjoyed some success in the Gifted world - even without actually being a mage." 

"The 'UnGifted world' has its drawbacks and its attractions." Sherlock said evenly. No. Not the gun. Probability of success at 22%. Inappropriate. "What next? You'll get your pet to eat me?" 

"I suppose," Moriarty said, with a gusty sigh, as the shadow of a tiger stirred again at his voice. "That would be the logical step." 

"Actually, it's the illogical step," Sherlock retorted, keeping his tone steady. 

"Oh?" 

"I have bent all that I could into finding you. Into stopping you. If your pet consumes me, should there be any of myself left in there, I will bend all that I can into killing you, into finding a way around whatever strictures you have placed to ensure its obedience. You don't know precisely what will happen, do you?" Sherlock added challengingly. 

"No. That is the joy of experimentation," Moriarty conceded. "I may be inclined to take that risk. What is life without risk?" 

"Risk is boring," Sherlock shot back coldly. "Particularly when the stakes have not been logically decided. What is life without logic?" 

"By that reasoning, I should kill you then. Dispose of the body. I very much doubt that even your illustrious brother would find us here." 

A pocket world. Perhaps one keyed to a place in Durham, but very subtly. "Perhaps so. But I have another suggestion to our impasse." 

"Do tell." 

"Do you play chess?" 

"Now and then," Moriarty said modestly, with what was likely false modesty, judging from the way his fingers twitched. 

"I suggest that we play a game. Best of three. If I win, you'll let me out of here, unharmed." 

"And if I win?" 

"I'll let your pet eat me, with no thought of vengeance." 

"Your particular stakes seem far more valuable than mine." 

"How many people have managed to trace you here?" Sherlock countered. "If you're looking for a man of particular intellect and drive to properly animate your _krigor_ , you'll be years in the looking again. Even if you can persuade such a man to allow the process without thoughts of revenge." 

"I'm a very, very persuasive man," Moriarty said, with a sharp smile, brittle with madness. "It's served me well in some of my work. I am, shall we say, a consulting criminal. I was inspired by Doctor Watson's stories. So you could say that I am a fan, a very big fan, Mister Holmes." 

"I'll relay your regards to the good Doctor." 

Moriarty's Gift had broken him, Sherlock felt: a man could not combine a mind of surpassing mathematical genius with a similarly singular Gift. Both forces were opposed: pure logic and pure chaos. Cracks had formed, sundering through, enough, perhaps, to have hidden Moriarty away from the notice of the Gifted world. Perhaps he had tried to live as one of the UnGifted for a while, turning his mind to mathematics and the chaos within him to crime. But it would never have been enough. Moriarty's selves were consuming each another, and murder was the result. 

Towards his Sherlock felt pity. Pity for the man whom Moriarty could have become, perhaps, had he no Gift and no chaos within him. And relief, for Sherlock knew that Moriarty would have been the result, had Sherlock himself been born to his family's stock in trade. And curiosity, for although Sherlock had long begun to suspect a subtle hand in play where certain crimes in England and the Continent were concerned, he had not until now linked it to Professor Moriarty. 

Something of this showed in his demeanor: Moriarty stared at Sherlock, his smile fading, as though trying to make out some new and novel equation, working it out towards the end, and then, abruptly, he smiled again, slowly this time. "Very well. I accept. But not the best of three. We'll play one game." 

"One game it is." Sherlock stood his ground as Moriarty slipped off the table, raising his palms. He spoke something in a grating, harsh language that Sherlock could not place, and the table shrank, its form twisting and shaping itself, until a small gray stone table sat beside the _krigor_ 's prone form, with two small stone stools. A chessboard etched itself out on the round surface of the table, white and black squares gleaming with marble finish, and then chess pieces forced themselves out of the stone, twisting and straining until they sat on the marble, delicately shaped. The knight's equine face had a particular expression of animal agony. 

"White, or black?" Moriarty inquired, with a grand gesture. 

"Your choice." 

"Let's play to stereotypes." Moriarty sat at the black side, and Sherlock took a seat at white, trying not to look at the _krigor_ as it twitched and growled softly, powerful claws flexing and tearing gouges in the ground. "It's quite safe," Moriarty added facetiously, noticing Sherlock's unease regardless. "Nothing up in the attic. It's a shadow puppet." 

"That didn't seem to hinder its predecessors." 

"Because the beauty of an arcanic parasite is that brain function is not entirely relevant," Moriarty said, crooking his fingers, and the _krigor_ uncurled to its feet, stalking closer to sit beside Moriarty's stool, its shoulder towering over the board, its great feline-like head on level with Moriarty's brow. Moriarty stroked its scruff with pale, steady fingers. "That's what I find fascinating about them, why I decided to study them. Cut the head off and they can still function, as long as they continue to feed on magic. They can only be destroyed through very few means." 

"Fire and iron." Sherlock reached out over the board and moved a pawn to e4. Moriarty tilted his head, pale fingers closing over the rounded tip of a pawn, flicking it to c5. 

They played in silence for the first twenty moves, the only sounds that of their breathing and the marble pieces clicking on marble. Moriarty was good, if a little reckless, but so far they seemed evenly matched; and more importantly, that brittle manic grin had faded off Moriarty's face, leaving it tight with a sort of solemn concentration, instead, a faint little frown, his chin braced over wreathed fingers, elbows propped on the table. A black bishop took a pawn, and Sherlock moved his second castle to threaten it. Moriarty smiled. 

"I thought that you were going to stall for time." 

"Boring." Sherlock said succinctly, and watched avidly as Moriarty moved one of his pawns to defend the bishop. 

"Yes. I see that now. I was right about you," Moriarty offered, as Sherlock retaliated by using a pawn to take another pawn, thinking _hg6_ , and smirking as a black pawn took it promptly off the board in return. The game was turning into a minor bloodbath. 

"Thank you." 

"I'm tempted to let you go anyway." Moriarty's smile was insincere, however. "For what will I have left to me should you be gone? There are no other worthy opponents." 

"My brother should be more in your league." Sherlock took another pawn to b4, to threaten the black queen. 

"The heavily Gifted all have a certain mindset. It took me years to break myself out of it." Moriarty confided, as the black queen took the bait, taking the pawn. "I have my deeply Catholic family to thank there. All my early years spent trying to repent, a string of priests coming by, trying to exorcise the demon child. It taught me how to hide myself. How to pretend. And ultimately, how to separate logic from chaos." Sherlock glanced up, startled at how closely Moriarty's words matched his inner conclusions, and Moriarty smiled again. "You see it too. Don't you? You were lucky." 

"Yes. I was." Castle to bishop. A black pawn removed a white castle. "I had to escape once I could, even so." 

"I saw that. Eton to Oxford and beyond, never looking back. You should have cut your family off altogether." 

"I tried." Victoria Holmes, however, could be extremely persistent. And despite everything, Sherlock did love his family, conflicted as that often could be. 

Moriarty eyed him thoughtfully as Sherlock advanced another pawn to f5. "I'm sorry about what happened to your mother," he said, again insincerely. "That _krigor_ wasn't meant for her. I lost track of Emers." 

"So it seemed." 

"And I'm glad that your brother destroyed it," Moriarty continued. "For you see. By themselves, in their purest form, _krigors_ are entirely chaos. Useless to everyone." 

"Why use fallen women?" Sherlock inquired, as Moriarty slipped a castle across the board boldly, to take the last of Sherlock's knights. 

"Because magic is fuelled both by an arcane quotient and an emotional quotient. That's why women, as a whole, tend to be better at it - at least in this part of the world. Men upkeep a stiff upper lip and all that," Moriarty mimed a blank and solemn face for a heartbeat. 

"You were looking for misery," Sherlock concluded. "Suffering. Using their pain to power your purposes." 

"Not just immediate misery. A lifetime of hopelessness and self-hatred. London is so very good at grinding up people," Moriarty petted the _krigor's_ cheek, "And spitting them out as grist; of such grinder mills, Whitechapel is the very best of the lot. Your friend Doctor Watson is looking for you, you know. He's quite good. Better than what his stories make him out to be." 

"Yes. I've always found that rather incongruous. He does like to downplay his part." Watson _was_ intelligent. "Perhaps it's the result of an overzealous editor." 

"He's correlated a few of the volumes of interest in Cosin's and traced them to me," Moriarty pursed his lips as Sherlock took a pawn to fg6, removing another of Moriarty's pawns. "And now he's sniffing around my offices, waving an iron pin about. Whatever could that be about?" 

Sherlock sighed. Close, Watson, but not close enough. "I seem to have given him the mistaken impression that iron dispels all magic." 

"Well, he won't find the entryway to this world with a pin," Moriarty noted, though he seemed amused, taking his castle across to h3 to threaten the last of Sherlock's castles. "The Lords and Ladies are having better luck." 

"Are they?" Sherlock noted, careful to sound indifferent. This was the information that he had been hoping to hear. A plan re-formed in his mind. 80% success. The white queen took the black queen. "So it seems that they're considerably less hopeless than Scotland Yard." 

"Not quite. They had to ride on your coat tails to get this far." Moriarty retaliated, castle to castle. 

"My blushes, Professor." 

Sherlock didn't keep track of the time, but as the game wore on, more and more pieces stacked along the side, until the board was nearly empty but for a white queen and the white king, the black king, its castles, and a pawn. The black castles chased the king and queen, trying futilely to trap them in, all checks, no checkmate, and the game was heading towards a stalemate, Sherlock decided. Judging from the deepening frown on his opponent's face, Moriarty knew it too. Under the table, quietly, Sherlock palmed the gun with the iron-tipped bullets into his left hand. Cocking it would give away the game, so he let it sit in his grip, though it didn't particularly give him comfort. Firearms had always been more of Watson's forte than Sherlock's. 

"Another game?" Sherlock inquired out aloud. "I do believe this one is a draw." It vaguely occurred to Sherlock that an ordinary man would have been afraid, at this point, if not before. A draw had not been an optimal outcome. But instead Sherlock felt anticipation, thinking of consequences, discarding solutions, even as he sat perfectly still and looked upon the man who would kill him. 

"I have no reason to believe that a second game would have a different result." Moriarty said, with a sigh. "And your friends are starting to get irritating. Regretfully, our game must come to a close." 

"Regretfully," Sherlock echoed, warily. 

"I take no pleasure in your death," Moriarty said solemnly, almost earnestly. "But I suppose you may go beyond the Veil assured of a clean one. I'll find another mind with which to animate my pet." 

"Thank you for the courtesy," Sherlock said, and cocked the gun, bracing his wrist and firing under the table - at the _krigor_. 

The iron-tipped bullets stitched into its pelt, the roar of the gun ear-splittingly loud in the room - just as Sherlock thought, Moriarty hadn't thought to shield his pet monster - and it howled, staggering back and snarling, even as Sherlock pulled up the gun from under the table and emptied the rest of bullets into the creature's skull. 

"You fool," Moriarty laughed, not even bothering to get up from the table, as the monster staggered back drunkenly. "That's not nearly enough iron to kill one of them." 

"I may have lied when I said that I'd never met the Lords and Ladies," Sherlock said calmly, also retaining his seat. "For I've met the Lady Adder, and in sniffing out arcane subtleties I do believe she has no equal." And the pain of a _krigor_ , burned with iron, was loud enough - even across the space of two worlds. 

Even as he said this, the air beside him seem to rent itself open, light spilling into the chamber of books, and Adder strode out, whip in hand, Anthea behind her; the whip cracked out, but Moriarty brought up a hand, and the leather glanced off against a glimmer of a shield, dispelled in the next as Anthea turned a page and spoke a word. Sherlock got up, backing away quickly, and from the rent in the air a long arm stretched through, grabbing him by the scruff and hauling him in- 

Sherlock tumbled out onto grass with a yelp, and it took him a moment to register the sun, the stonework, the scent of the air. Back in the actual world, at the Palace Green, it seemed. Mycroft knelt beside him, checking him briskly over, murmuring a snatch of a ghazal, then he sighed and glowered at him. "How in the world do you always manage to get into such trouble when my back is turned?" 

"Call it a singular talent." Sherlock got to his feet, and after a second, Mycroft rose to his as well, ignoring the grass stains on his trousers. "Not going to enter the fray?" 

"The Lords and Ladies are specialists. I'll only be making a nuisance of myself," Mycroft said briskly. "I'm glad that you're safe," he added, more stiffly, and Sherlock wondered for a moment what matters would've been like, had the Gift not sat between them, an impenetrable barrier of chaos between minds that should've been twinned. Perhaps they would have been different. 

Or perhaps not. 

"Get me back to Baker Street," Sherlock said finally, pushing the flash of maudlin sentiment aside. "And then go and dig Doctor Watson out of Moriarty's office before he hurts himself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to the next!


	12. Chapter 12

The Fool.

John found Sherlock scraping desultorily at a violin when Mycroft summarily deposited him back at 221B. Sherlock didn't even bother to look up, sprawled over the armchair with the violin in his lap, though he glowered as John recovered his composure and hurried over to check on him, batting irritably at John's hands as he tried to take his pulse.

"Yes, yes I'm all right, no, I'm not hurt," Sherlock said snappishly. 

"How did you.... Did you escape? Is the killer dead? What happened?" 

"Stop bombarding me with questions." Sherlock scraped another screeching note on his violin. "This entire case has been entirely unsatisfactory and a quagmire of mishaps and I would rather put the entire business behind me posthaste." 

"But-" 

"No doubt my brother is capable of handling it from now on." 

"Yes, your brother," John said dryly, for Mycroft had been similarly disinterested in doing anything to assuage John's worry, appearing out of nowhere just to push him back a step and into 221B. If he ever wrote Mycroft Holmes into one of his stories, John decided, he was going to make Mycroft's character an even bigger literary caricature than Lestrade's. 

"By the way," Sherlock added. "Good work tracing the books. But that trick with the pin only works with illusions." 

"I think your brother was trying not to laugh," John admitted, and after a long moment of pointed silence interrupted only by a couple of grating scrapes from the poor violin, John sighed and decided to make himself a cup of tea. "Is it all over?" he asked, as he put the kettle on. 

"I do hope so. It's out of our hands, at least." Sherlock's eyes were closed, and he wore a little frown. "Do you know, Watson," he added idly, "It strikes me that magic is a curse upon those Gifted with it. It does seem that it is, at its core, a singular poison to the logical mind. I might write a monograph on it." 

"Your brother would love that." John said dryly. 

"Yes he would, wouldn't he?" Sherlock had allowed himself one of his sharp and merciless smiles. "So he would." 

"But really. The Ripper murders have been all over the press for weeks. Surely-" 

"Surely what?" Sherlock interrupted testily. "A public trial, all of the world's arcana dragged to light? I doubt it. There'll be no further murders, and after a month or so, the papers will find something else to decry. People are predictable and boring and life is full of disappointments." He punctuated this statement with a particularly loud shrill. 

Philosophically, John made them both a cup of tea, and sat down to it with the evening paper. He tried writing down a few notes in his book, but stared at the set, then finally sighed and ripped out the pages containing all the notes from the Ripper case, and with a fit of savage impulse, John strode over to the fireplace and threw them into the fire. From the other side of their rooms, the violin stopped in mid-scrape, and then, after a pause, John heard Sherlock lifting it to his chin, and the first lilting notes of an aria whispered alive.

The Magician.

James Moriarty waited until the man chained to the bed had exhausted himself with his struggles before injecting him with the latest version of the tincture. He could have used a kōan to hold down the Colonel, of course, but there was no point in wasting energy where cruelty would suffice. Chained tight, Sebastian Moran, late of the Bangalore Pioneers, abruptly began to convulse on the bed, screaming into the gag, as the anchored _krigor_ ate into him, twisting up his handsome features, heels drumming on the mattress. Moriarty watched for a moment longer before he got up from the side of the bed to look out of the window, at the dramatic view of the Reichenbach falls and its mist-choked pool, the hammer of the water and spray a suitable rhythm for dramatic deeds. Set to flee, Moriarty had to run far to throw the hounds off his scent.

Briefly, even as the bound man behind them moaned and yanked at his chains, Moriarty thought about popping over to Baker Street, for completion's sake, to get rid of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, but then again, such revenges were petty. Boring, as Holmes would say. Moriarty's lip twisted, and he traced a doodle on the dulled glass of the cottage window. Boring. Boring. He checked his stopwatch, then sucked in a sigh. Soon the _krigor_ would have all but drained its host dry. Moriarty would have to kill Moran a minute or so before death, allowing the violence and the last burst of shared fear and pain, between host and parasite, to give the _krigor_ the impetus to break free: or else the parasite would simply eat its host dry and then die. The early experiments had been depressing, when Moriarty hadn't yet figured out this final step. 

Moriarty's finger was dusty from the increasingly complex doodle on the window when he finally thought to check his watch. Nearly a quarter of an hour. He turned back to Moran, expecting to see the body starting to wither, to cave in at the belly and chest, for the struggles to have ceased - but Moran was still twisting at his bonds, if silently now, trying to work his hands out from the cuffs, and Moriarty blinked in surprise. Moran hissed into the gag as Moriarty stepped over, pinning Moran's head to the pillow to check his pulse. It was quickened, but strong, and as Moriarty looked into Moran's eyes, bright with rage and pain and murder, he smiled. 

"Well, well," Moriarty said, and stroked Moran's sweat-matted hair, with mock tenderness, even as the Colonel snarled into his gag and then arched in pain. "I wonder." The _krigor_ , against all odds, was... assimilating, somehow. Or perhaps Moran was resisting it. Moriarty had kidnapped Moran out of his alcohol-and-violence mired life, fighting the underground boxing circuits for gambling money, having decided on a whim to pick out a ex-soldier after all instead of yet another fallen woman. Perhaps there was something to that. Moran was clearly too stubborn to die. 

"Allow me to introduce myself," Moriarty added, as he sat down primly at the side of the bed. "I am James Moriarty. I may be responsible for your current predicament, and as you've no doubt intimated, you are most likely about to die. Or so I thought as well. But somehow you're defying the odds, my dear Colonel. Colour me intrigued." 

Moran let out a furious, pained sound, and Moriarty flicked off the gag as an afterthought. "You bloody _bastard_ ," Moran spat out, "If I get free I'll wring your sodding neck!" 

"Yes. And there's the problem," Moriarty said, with a wide, manic smile, feeling his boredom start to slip after all. Perhaps this world still had something left to it. "I propose a truce. Do you want the pain to stop?" A variant of the anchor spell, perhaps, that had allowed him to bind Moran's predecessor nominally to Moriarty's will. Settle the monster under human skin. 

"Son of a whore," Moran hissed, clearly not inclined to bargain, and Moriarty pulled the gag back down, and murmured a kōan, pulling out the book of Assyrian poetry from the air. There was a sharp intake of breath beside him, then the struggles renewed afresh, and Moriarty crossed his legs demurely and opened the book. 

After all, sooner or later, everyone breaks. "This," Moriarty told the moaning, thrashing man, "Is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship."

The Empress.

Sherlock spent Christmas at his mother's house, and had towed a loudly protesting Doctor Watson along as a human shield. Besides, the Doctor wasn't exactly married as of this instant, so it wasn't as though he really had any family of note, and so on, and it was warm in the eternal summer. Watson really should be grateful, in fact. He tossed Watson to the wolves, the female practitioners who always flocked around the house during such social events, vying for Mycroft's attention, and allowed his mother to drag him out for a walk in the garden.

The maze had been fixed, and Sherlock tried not to make it seem too obvious as though he was looking over his mother. Victoria Holmes was resplendent in a cream dress, dotted with seed pearls and opals, and a glorious, wide-brimmed hat, adorned with feathers from Faerie fauna, plumed and brightly iridescent. She looked pale under her hat, and she seemed thinner than before, but otherwise, she could walk, if slowly, and her grip was as firm as ever as she hooked her hand into the crook of Sherlock's arm. 

"A good Christmas to you," Victoria told Sherlock, with a sly smile that had all of her fierce humour of old, and he found himself relaxing a little. 

"And to you, Mother." 

"Your brother's been so absent of late. Without the both of you about, the house gets so very lonely." 

"Demands of the realms and all that, I presume." Sherlock doubted that this was true. His mother had never lacked for company.

"I think," Victoria pursed her lips, "That he doesn't quite want to introduce me to his lover." 

"Demands of the bloodline and all that," Sherlock said indifferently. 

"Rubbish. We have cousins here and there. And the title of Dragon is hardly hereditary." 

"It just happens to have run in our family for over three generations, yes." 

"I was hoping that you would have been born a girl," Victoria said, a little petulantly, though she smiled. "I picked out a female name, clothes, everything." 

"Yes, I know." Sherlock's earliest memory of his nursery had been his brother's diligent attempts to replace everything that was feminine and lacy to more neutral items, and his mother's playful (?) countermeasures, re-filling the room with increasingly strange furniture and toys. "Apparently you hoped that Mycroft was a girl as well." 

"Myrcelline and Sherynna," Victoria sighed gustily. "But instead I get one boy who's too Gifted for his own good and one who isn't Gifted at all." 

"Mycroft seems to be coping." 

"Only by getting himself tightly involved in a world irrelevant to his own." 

"Both worlds are relevant to each other, Mother. Ivory towers do tend to crumble if left alone." 

Sherlock had expected Victoria to just brush this off with her usual sardonic amusement, but instead he got a sober glance. "So I see." 

Thrown by the unexpected agreement, Sherlock stared at her before looking away, towards the high hedges of the maze. They walked for a moment more in silence before Victoria added, "I _am_ glad that Mycroft became the Dragon of England." 

"I know." The parties in his mother's house had only grown more lavish since her forced retirement. 

"That is not to say that I am particularly pleased that it had to come about in such a manner." 

"James Moriarty is still alive. It's not too late to inform him of your displeasure." 

"Oh yes." Victoria pursed her lips. "I've been thinking about it. Your brother's been dead set against it, of course." 

"He is who he is." Too Gifted for his own good. The near limitless range of a linguist's ability had destroyed Moriarty. But Mycroft, on the other hand, had bottled in all his self-doubt and his fears, arming himself with poise and distancing himself from those he treasured, while trying to build walls around them all to hem them in, for their 'protection'. "Surely he's now too busy to care overmuch," Sherlock said, if halfheartedly. Mycroft could be running the world itself, and he'd still find the time to poke his nose where it wasn't wanted. 

Victoria sniffed. "That's why I have high hopes about this Inspector Lestrade. Tell me about him." 

"Him?" Sherlock grimaced. "He's dull and plodding. His main purpose in life is to provide me with a link to Scotland Yard." 

"But you do seem to involve him in a number of your adventures." 

Adventures! Sherlock swallowed a sigh. "My _cases_ , yes. That's because he's the best of a bad lot. And he's loyal and patient and willing to learn. That's more than what I can say for most of the Yard." 

"Hm." Victoria pursed her lips, even as they passed the maze by, and Sherlock realized why they had come this way after all. The tree with the door stood before them, heavy with the coats of his mother's guests, though a low branch still stood empty. 

"But Mycroft's back in the house," Sherlock began, then he stopped. "You sent the Inspector a private invitation? Through to Mayfair?" 

"It's Christmas, my dear," Victoria smiled, imperious as ever. "I do try to take an interest in your lives at least once a year. And your brother needs a reminder now and then that the world _doesn't_ , in fact, revolve around him." 

"Ah," Sherlock said resignedly. "Revenge." Mycroft should have seen it coming. 

"Oh darling. I just wish to meet Mycroft's special friend, that's all. Discover why he's so besotted." 

"I suppose if Lestrade survives the shock of your ambush interview he'll be able to weather a relationship with Mycroft easily enough." 

"Don't be petty, dear." 

Sherlock sighed, even as Victoria checked a silver pocket watch, and then she snapped the lid closed and slipped it back up her sleeve. The door in the tree was beginning to open.

The Lovers.

Greg was comfortably tipsy by the time Mycroft obviously lost interest in the Christmas festivities and not-so-secretly hustled him out of the garden dinner party. What had most certainly started off as a giggle had blown out into belly-aching laughter by the time they stumbled into Mycroft's bedchamber, and Mycroft's irritated stare didn't quite help matters.

"So that's you being subtle, eh? What with all the talking-to you put me ear to, when your mum dragged me into the party-" 

"I cannot believe that you accepted my mother's invitation," Mycroft growled, when they somehow managed to make it to the bed, slightly breathless, legs still hanging off the edge, coats off on the floor somewhere and shoes kicked away. 

"What, was I supposed to say 'no'?" Greg pretended to look shocked. "Not polite, innit? Seeing as it's your mum and all." 

"You should have at least informed me about it first." 

"Sent you a magic telegram?" Greg asked facetiously, and even as Mycroft sputtered and tried to explain, Greg leaned over to kiss him, fumbling it at first until he managed to roll on top, and nearly got a wayward knee to the kidneys before they fit together less awkwardly, Mycroft's hands going from Greg's shoulders to the buttons on his waistcoat. Navigating their clothes was easier now, with practice, and they shed layers with growing impatience, waistcoats and shirts and vests shucking into heaps off the bed, Mycroft's fingers freezing in Greg's belt briefly as Greg set his teeth over a bared shoulder then lower, to one dark, stiffening nipple. 

Greg could smell sweat and the strange metallic hint of Mycroft's magic, the air all prickly warmth against him as he temporarily gave up on Mycroft's clothes to taste him instead, licking and sucking wetly, chuckling when Mycroft growled and yanked viciously at Greg's belt and cursed him in French. Greg bit down on the other nipple, just to hear Mycroft switch effortlessly to Spanish, then to some snarling tongue that Greg couldn't quite identify, as Greg worked out belt and drawstrings and got a hand down Mycroft's pants, closing his fingers around Mycroft's straining cock. It was dry and probably uncomfortable for Mycroft but he bucked up into Greg's grip anyway with a sound that was most definitely a whine, disheveled and flushed and undone, and Greg inched up to kiss him, the bristly scruff of Mycroft's jaw, the hawkish point of his nose, the arch of his cheekbones, and finally the parted mouth, wet with promise. 

"You unmake me," Mycroft hissed into Greg's ear, as they finally managed to get the last of their kit off, and Greg grinned unrepentantly, setting his teeth over the arch of Mycroft's jaw, his tongue to the pulse in Mycroft's neck. It was still a little strange, this new intimacy between them, so much more raw than anything Greg had tried before with women, lust visceral and humming under his skin as he rubbed their cocks together with a spit-slicked hand. Mycroft's head snapped back with another unintelligible curse, then he abruptly shoved Greg over, catching him by surprise and wrestling him onto his back, kissing him so roughly that their teeth scraped together, that blood flecked Greg's tongue from a cut on Mycroft's lip. He sucked on the wound apologetically, and felt Mycroft's cock rub up against his hip, blindly seeking pressure, but as Greg reached down to take Mycroft in hand, his wrist was slapped away and pinned to the bed. 

Mycroft reared up, his eyes dark with lust and his smile thin, predatory again, the breath catching in Greg's throat, a small pleading whine worming out instead. "Mycroft." 

"You're impossible." 

"I don't have to hear that kind of lip from you," Greg retorted, with as cheeky a grin as he could manage, "Merlin." 

"Don't call me that," Mycroft scowled, and bit Greg on the chest for good measure, above one nipple, working in teeth until Greg yelped and arched. 

"Oi! Watch the - _Jesus_ -" Greg found himself turned around, cheek into the pillows and arse up in the air, Mycroft murmuring something that made his skin prickle a little. Glancing over his shoulder to check, Greg was just in time to catch Mycroft's lazy smirk, and the bastard bit him hard over one arsecheek, what the devil- "You crazy posh nobs and your - _sweet Mother Mary_ -" Mycroft had just spread Greg's arsecheeks and licked a stripe up his crack. "That's... that's..." The rest of his protests melted away into what was very obviously a whimper as Mycroft licked him again, more leisurely, tongue wriggling against his _hole_ , insane and filthy and this was Mycroft doing this to him, prim and infinitely dignified Mycroft, chuckling darkly against Greg's skin, breath hot against the most intimate parts of Greg's body. 

"Knees up, Gregory," Mycroft purred. "And hands to yourself." 

"That's dirty, that is," Greg managed a final protest. 

"Used a spell. Now. Hands to yourself, my dear." 

It was difficult to obey, especially when Mycroft started _sucking_ at him, licking _into_ him, and spell or no spell Greg's brain couldn't quite get over how obscene it all was, how very forbidden, and exposure to Mycroft Holmes had clearly ruined him for propriety: instead of protesting again, Greg found himself moaning into the pillows instead, eager and wanton, begging, pushing his hips back into Mycroft's grasp, sobbing when Mycroft pressed his tongue into him, then his fingers, slick with something oily and slippery. When Mycroft touched something within him that burned a shot of pleasure bright in his blood, Greg let out a shocked and garbled sound and spilled on the sheets, hips pumping blindly against the air and Mycroft's buried fingers. 

"Oh-" Mycroft gasped, "Gregory. My Gregory." There was awe there, and possessiveness, and tenderness, and Greg turned his face into the pillows to hide the sting in his eyes, the blind grateful adoration that uncurled within him in a blooming warmth, trying to still the escalated cadence of his breaths. Fingers pulled away slickly, then Mycroft kissed Greg's spine, his voice tight and urgent. "Gregory. May I? I need you." 

"Do it," Greg braced himself against the headboard, and felt the air punch out of him in a long and drawn out whine as Mycroft pushed into him, the stretch hot with ebbing pain, the fullness strange but not unpleasant. Greg bit down on the pillow to stifle a keening cry, balanced somewhere between lust and pain and devotion, listening to Mycroft's gasping, nonsense praise, concentrating on the hands stroking up and down his flanks. Another pillow was pulled under his hips, as Mycroft eventually bottomed out, and now Greg was blanketed by the smell of wild summer, all sun-baked air and thickened heat. Mycroft groaned something, hands bracketing Greg's shoulders, and he didn't move, breaths wet against the back of Greg's neck until Greg tentatively pushed his arse back, body loosening, ready. 

Greg had vaguely expected to be pounded into the bed, particularly with how their... encounters usually ran, all pent-up frustrations and quick releases. Mycroft, however, was slow, rocking into him, unhurried and quiet, though sometimes his breathing hitched, adjusting until he rubbed against that something within Greg again, that switch of pleasure. At Greg's gasp, he heard a chuckle behind him, then Mycroft was rubbing lazily against the perfect spot at every thrust, inexorably slow, even when Greg's cock thickened again and his moans took on an impatient edge. 

"Please," Greg tried begging at first, then cursing, then begging again, until his voice was raw and thick with desperate sobs, too dazed to protest the slow pace further, the brushing kisses pressed over his shoulders and back. He probably even blacked out at one point, too strung out on sensation to notice, only dully aware that he had come again at the wetness he was pressed into over the pillow. Behind him, Mycroft let out a deep and bone-satisfied sigh, and pulled out of Greg with a wet sound; confused, Greg tried to squirm round to take a look and let out a gasp instead as he felt a wet streak of fluid spatter against his arse and spine. 

He started laughing again in gasping, hoarse spurts as Mycroft cleaned them both up and tucked them in, but this time he got a kiss on the forehead instead of Mycroft's usual indignation. "That's how you were planning to keep me from tomorrow's party, eh?" Greg managed to whisper. "Making sure I can't walk?" 

"You've seen through my plans," Mycroft's voice didn't sound any less ragged, and he smiled as he drew Greg close, to fit their bodies together in the dark.

The Chariot.

Sally "Sergeant" Donovan finished her slow and careful circle around the cottage before holstering her pistol and slipping in through the front door. The door itself had been torn off its hinges, the faint astringent scent of broken wards filtering through, warped by the citrus-sharp sensation of Anthea's magic. Sally found her colleagues in the bedchamber, studying a bed with a rusty frame, a naked mattress torn at the edges. There was a stinking, ugly stain on it that looked newer than the rest, and the lingering stench of voided bowels. Bright gashes on the posts of the bed indicated that someone had been cuffed to each post recently. Had fought to the last, perhaps.

"Looks like we found our killer," Adder touched the tips of one lace-gloved hand to a post. Anthea was next to a grimy window with a large doodle on it, turning a page of her book. 

"No birthing fluid." Sally studied the room. "Did he just torture some poor soul to death?" 

"In a sense." Adder pointed. Rolled into a corner of the room was an empty syringe. "Still stained with the tincture." 

"He..." Sally trailed off, surprised. "The tincture didn't work? There was no emergence?" 

"Looks that way," Anthea said quietly. She turned another page, then spoke one of her Shapings into the air, a madih, and the light in the room dimmed almost to a pitch black gloom. In the gloom, pale shapes formed, one spread on the bed, one seated on the edge. 

"This is as far back as you can go?" Adder pursed her lips. 

"Lingering trace. Not much left of it. Death signature from the one on the bed." Anthea frowned to herself. "A death signature, but not a complete one. I haven't seen the like." 

Adder frowned, then she shook her head and made her way out of the bedroom. They caught up with her at the banks of the Reichenbach, her lacy gloved hands on her hips, staring up at the roaring spray. Sally had to raise her voice to make it audible over the falls. "Getting close," she offered. 

"Not at all." Adder, however, was smiling sharply. "When was the last time we had such a chase, my sisters?" 

"Never chased a linguist before," Sally pointed out. "He's still killing. We got to catch up fast." 

"Yes, yes," Adder said distractedly. "I've read the reports." 

"Spikes in magic-related crimes," Anthea added quietly. "Consulting on both sides." 

"People like that will bore of the world sooner or later. They crack under the pressures of their own talent," Adder predicted. "He'll move on to Faerie, or he'll combust. Either way, that's when we'll catch up." 

Anthea consulted her book. "Could try the Holmes leads. Something in Nepal." 

"Holmes," Sally pulled a face. "Amateur." Lucky amateur at that. Annoying. Adder smirked at her, clearly amused at her distaste. 

"Nepal it is. But first, a warm bath." Adder decided. Anthea took their hands, her book tucked under an arm, and soon, only the roar of the waterfall remained.

The World.

Mycroft spent the morning appeasing the Tower and his afternoon updating the Queen at tea, then struggling to keep up with various crises in the evening, and by the time night had fallen he was tired and irritable and exasperated. It didn't help that Doctor Watson had published yet another fanciful tale in the Strand, with Mycroft in it. 'The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans', indeed! He was in the middle of reviewing a report on the spice trade crisis when there was a knock on the door, and before Mycroft could tell whoever it was to come back later, the door opened.

Lestrade laughed at Mycroft's look of indignation, balancing a tray of cold meats, bread, cheese and soup, closing the door behind him with his foot. He walked right over and set the tray down on Mycroft's desk, ignoring Mycroft's glower as this meant setting the tray over reams of papers, and then he circled around and kissed Mycroft on the temple. "Time to eat before you keel over." 

"You're on duty tonight," Mycroft said, obvious enough from Lestrade's clothes and the faint bump above his hip pocket that betrayed the Inspector's hidden pistol. "Shouldn't you be out on the streets?" 

"Your brother's still nosing about, and I thought I could nip over for a bit before he's done. Seems you've been breathing fire all day, what with your staff running too scared to even bring up your supper." 

"While you've walked right into the lion's den," Mycroft reluctantly pulled the soup bowl closer. Despite himself, he could feel his black mood dissipating, especially when Lestrade shot him one of his unrepentantly cheeky grins, arms folded, hip set against the desk. 

"Your mum gets worried, you know." 

"You really ought to stop encouraging her." 

"Not encouraging her, just keeping her company now and then. Think she would've liked to meet me mum, rest her soul," Lestrade added incongruously. 

"It would have been a... cultural shock," Mycroft allowed delicately. Victoria Holmes had spent most of her life cocooned away from the middle class and below, particularly those who were UnGifted. 

"I know. I think that's why she likes me," Lestrade confided. "She offered to open up a wall in my Hackney room to her house." 

"You'll never be left in peace ever again," Mycroft warned, though he was amused at the thought. "Besides, whatever will your landlord think?" 

"Aye, I told her 'no'. Besides. Why would I want a shortcut to _her_ place? When are you making your own bit of turf?" Lestrade inquired facetiously. "Your mum made that summer thing, Moriarty made that weird book maze thing... where's yours?" 

"You're standing in it," Mycroft said, amused, and Lestrade actually looked around sharply before he snorted. 

"Funny." 

"I wasn't speaking in jest." Mycroft had one more spoon of the soup, then he got to his feet and playfully offered Lestrade his arm. Smirking, Lestrade obliged, hand hooked on Mycroft's arm as they went around the desk to the innocuous black door at the back. 

"So what, the Diogenes Club is bigger on the inside? Eternal winter beyond, maybe?" 

"Not quite." Mycroft opened the door, and pulled Lestrade through. It was autumn in this copy of Trafalgar Square, empty of people and traffic, the sun warm over the flagstones. Doors of varying shapes and sizes and make hung in the air, an inch over the ground, scattered at uneven intervals around the square, dotting the streets of an empty London. Beside him, Lestrade blinked, his grip on Mycroft's arm tightening for a moment, then he chuckled. 

"Trust you to have a world that makes no sense and perfect sense all at once. A way out, is it? To everywhere?" 

"A reminder," Mycroft corrected. "That the universe is far larger than the sum of one man." He drew Lestrade close, and kissed him in the empty square, softly, until he felt Lestrade's arms curl around his waist. "Most mages build worlds to hide themselves inwards. But that's where madness lies." Mycroft brushed a kiss against Lestrade's forehead, as his lover tensed slightly. "I chose to build outwards." 

"And how's that working for you?" Lestrade asked quietly, his hands warm as he stroked up Mycroft's spine, then back down to rest over his hips. 

"I haven't decided," Mycroft admitted, with a wry smile. "I haven't yet had the time or the inclination to explore even most of the doors in this square, let alone those beyond. But someday." 

"Someday," Lestrade echoed. "I s'pose we could pick a street and head outwards, see how far it goes and... that is," Lestrade added awkwardly, as Mycroft's smile widened, "If you were planning to take me along." 

"I was but wondering how to ask," Mycroft admitted, and kissed Lestrade again, slowly, in the world that he had built, between all the worlds yet to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> -  
> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent


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